AN  IDYL 


WABA 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 


AND    OTHER    STORIES 


BY 

ANNA  NICHOLAS 


Made  out  o'  truck  'afsjes1  a-goiri1  to  waste 
'Cause  smart  folks  thinks  it's  altogether  too 
Outrageous  common. — RILEY. 


NEW  YORK 

HURST  &  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copyright  1898 
The  Bowen  Merrill  Company 

Copyright  1912 
The  Bobbs-Merrill  Company. 


An  M7lonbeW»b«h 


TO  MY  MOTHER 


2137335 


CONTENTS 

PAGE. 

AN  IDYL  OF  THB  WABASH i 

AT  A  WAY  STATION 32 

MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART  .        .        .        .60 

AN  ABIDING  LOVE 77 

A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 101 

THE  SOLUTION  OF  A  TEXT 131 

AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 141 

AN  ITINERANT  PAIR       ......      177 

A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 201 

THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL         ....      221 


Herewith  together  you  have  flower  and  thorn, 
Both  rose  and  brier,  for  thus  together  grow 
Bitter  and  sweet,  but  wherefore  none  may  know. 

— ALDRICH. 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

WHEN  Miss  Callista  Rogers  first  came 
from  her  Vermont  home  to  the  little 
Indiana  town  of  Honeyport,  on  the  Wabash, 
she  had  a  sense  of  almost  perilous  adventure — 
something  like  that  felt  by  the  pioneer  women 
who  followed  up  the  ever-advancing  and  now 
forever  vanished  frontier. 

"It  is  so  very  far  away,"  she  said  to  her  fam- 
ily before  starting,  "and  while,  of  course,  there 
are  no  Indians  and  no  danger  of  having  one's 
scalp  taken,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  still,  things 
will  be  queer  and  the  people  can't  be  expected 
to  be  like  those  in  Vermont,  not  having  had  the 
same  advantages." 

After  she  reached  Honeyport  she  wrote  to  her 
sister  that  the  people  were  queer,  but  that  they 
seemed  friendly,  and  she  thought  she  should  get 
along  real  well.  At  that  time  Miss  Callista  was 
not  much  past  her  first  youth,  but  she  had  lived 
I 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

long  enough  to  have  imbibed  the  very  firm  con- 
viction that  New  England  opinions  and  New 
England  ways  were  the  only  opinions  and  only 
ways  worth  considering  seriously.  Holding 
such  belief,  it  might  naturally  have  been  expect- 
ed that  she  would  come  into  conflict  with  her 
new  associates,  but  a  fair  degree  of  discretion 
prevented  her  from  airing  her  views  too  aggress- 
ively, and  her  wholesome  humor  and  evident 
kindliness  of  spirit  led  her  Hoosier  friends  to  be 
indulgent  to  such  of  her  unflattering  opinions  as 
were  inadvertently  betrayed  and  to  regard  her 
with  considerable  favor. 

She  had  come  to  Indiana  to  teach  school,  and 
to  Honeyport  through  the  intercession  in  her 
behalf  of  Deacon  Knox,  an  old  family  friend  at 
home  whose  second  cousin  had  married  Rev. 
Calvin  Evans,  pastor  of  the  Presbyterian  Church 
at  Honeyport. 

In  those  days — it  was  soon  after  the  war — 
teaching,  especially  in  the  rural  districts  and  vil- 
lage communities,  was  not  the  complicated  and 
exacting  science  it  has  since  become.  Miss 
Callista  was  fairly  well  grounded  in  the  common 
English  branches ;  in  the  way  of  accomplish- 
ments she  knew  a  little  music,  and  as  a  crowning 
2 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

acquirement  had  an  acquaintance  with  the  rudi- 
ments of  the  Latin  language.  This  last  she  was 
not  called  upon  to  teach,  but  the  consciousness 
that  she  was  on  familiar  terms — hardly  a  speak- 
ing acquaintance,  to  be  sure — with  the  ancient 
tongue  was  a  soure  of  infinite  satisfaction  to  her ; 
it  gave  her  a  sense  of  superiority  and  power. 

There  were  some  preliminaries  to  be  under- 
gone before  she  was  officially  authorized  to  teach 
the  young  idea  of  Honeyport,  an  examination 
among  the  rest,  but  this  was  not  severe,  and  she 
stood  it  successfully.  As  for  the  methods  of 
teaching  to  be  adopted,  there  were  no  fixed 
rules  as  now  under  the  elaborate  and  inflexible 
system  in  vogue.  She  was  free  to  follow  her 
own  judgment,  which  was  for  the  most  part 
good,  being  based  on  New  England  common 
sense  and  a  power  of  adaptation  to  the  pupils' 
individual  needs  which  every  successful  teacher 
must  have.  So  she  taught  in  one  of  the  two 
schools  of  Honeyport  very  acceptably  to  the 
people,  who  were  easy-going  and  not  yet 
affected  by  the  "higher  education"  fad. 

But  Miss  Callista  did  not  so  easily  adapt  her- 
self to  her  new  environment  in  all  respects.  She 
did  not  like  the  appearance  of  the  town  and  the 
3 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

surrounding  country,  to  begin  with.  The  coun- 
try was  too  level.  Her  soul  yearned  for  the  hills 
as  the  souls  of  those  born  among  them  must  do 
till  memory  fails.  She  missed  the  blue  dis- 
tances, the  lights  and  shadows,  the  feeling  of 
companionship  the  mountains  gave.  The  prairie 
was  monotonous  and  the  sky  shut  down  too 
close.  The  village  itself  was  trying  to  her  sense 
of  thrift  and  order.  She  could  not  free  her 
mind  concerning  it  in  her  letters  home,  for  she 
was  resolved  to  give  nothing  but  agreeable  im- 
pressions to  the  mother  and  sister  back  in  the 
trim  and  prim  but  picturesque  Vermont  town. 
To  Mrs.  Evans,  the  pastor's  wife,  she  unbur- 
dened her  mind  when  her  sensibilities  were  too 
deeply  outraged.  In  Mrs.  Evans  she  had  found 
a  congenial  acquaintance.  That  lady  had  lived 
in  Indiana  for  so  many  years  that  she  had  ac- 
quired some  of  the  habits  and  peculiarities  of 
what  Miss  Callista  called  the  natives,  but  she 
had  been  born  in  New  England  and  cherished 
its  traditions.  Consequently,  she  sympathized 
in  a  measure  with  the  strictures  made  by  the 
new  teacher,  but  she  was  a  discreet  woman,  as 
became  a  minister's  wife,  and  the  confidences 
poured  into  her  ears  went  no  further.  Un- 
4 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

derstanding  this,  Miss  Callista  felt  free  to  ex- 
press her  true  sentiments  on  all  matters.  She 
was  especially  indignant  over  the  slipshod  ways 
of  the  village. 

"It's  perfectly  scandalous,"  she  said,  "the 
way  they  let  the  grass  grow  in  the  gutters  and 
the  way  they  let  the  pigs  and  cattle  run  loose  in 
the  street.  They  ought  to  have  more  pride. 
Why,  when  I  rode  up  Main  street  in  the  Paw 
Paw  hack  that  first  day  and  saw  the  sidewalks 
almost  covered  by  high  grass,  and  cows  and  pigs 
lying  right  on  the  walks,  and  people  stepping 
around  them,  I  expected  to  find  slovenly  house- 
keeping, too.  Like  town,  like  people,  I  thought. 
Didn't  turn  out  jest  that  way,  I'm  free  to  con- 
fess. There  are  some  very  nice,  neat  house- 
keepers here." 

Another  peculiarity  of  the  natives  excited  Miss 
Callista 's  scorn. 

"I  never  see,"  she  told  Mrs.  Evans,  "such  a 
dowdy  set  as  they  be.  Why,  they  don't  care 
how  they  look.  The  women  don't  dress  up  of 
afternoons,  and  farmers'  wives  don't  put  on  a 
fresh  dud  when  they  come  to  town ;  jest  wear 
their  old  limpsy  calicoes  and  sunbunnets.  The 
men  ain't  a  mite  better,  though,  to  be  sure,  that's 
5 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

the  women's  fault.  Husbands  are  much  what 
the  wives  make  'em,  as  you  know.  I  don't  set 
no  great  store  by  fashions  and  folderols  myself, ' ' 
she  went  on,  "but  it's  certainly  a  dreadful  shame 
they  don't  slick  up  more  when  they  go  to  meet- 
ing— particularly  the  Campbellites.  Go  over  to 
that  church  an'  you  won't  see  a  man  with  a 
starched  shirt  bosom.  Not  that  I  look  at  such 
things,  specially,  but  if  you  have  eyes  you  must 
see.  Clean  enough,  all  of  'em,  mebbe,  but  no 
stiffenin'.  I'd  like  to  clearstarch  'em  all  once — 
men,  women  and  children. 

"And  there  is  another  thing.  Folks  around 
here  surmise  and  wonder,  but  can't  guess  one  of 
the  main  reasons  why  I  set  up  my  own  little 
housekeeping.  Of  course,  in  the  first  place,  I 
wanted  to  economize,  but,  Mrs.  Evans,  another 
great  thing  was  that  I  jest  wanted  something 
good  to  eat.  I  do'  know  as  I'm  so  very  dainty 
about  my  eating,  an'  I  do'  know  but  I  be.  Any- 
how, I  don't  like  the  cooking  I  get  at  most  places. 
Of  course,  if  you'd  felt  clear  to  take  me  it  would 
a'  been  all  right  s'  far  as  the  table's  concerned, 
but  most  places  they  don't  suit  me.  They  can't 
make  a  good  cup  o'  tea;  they  don't  know  how 
to  make  yeast  bread,  and  not  one  of  'em  can 
6 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

make  a  decent  pie.  I  will  say  for  'em,  though, 
that  they  can  fry  chicken  to  beat  all  creation." 

Miss  Callista  conceived  a  peculiar  animosity 
toward  the  religious  sect  variously  known  as 
"Disciples,"  "Christians"  and  Campbellites." 
Just  why  was  not  clear.  It  may  have  been  due 
to  the  fact  that  she  had  never  heard  of  the  de- 
nomination back  in  Vermont,  and  being,  as  she 
considered,  a  purely  western  product,  it  was, 
therefore,  to  be  distrusted  as  somehow  unortho- 
dox and  subversive  of  pious  principles.  The  sect 
was  numerously  represented  in  that  locality,  and 
the  congregation  which  worshiped  in  one  of 
the  three  churches  of  Honeyport  was  larger  than 
either  the  Methodists  or  Presbyterians  could 
muster. 

"I  shan't  call  'em  Disciples,"  sniffed  Miss 
Callista,  "jest  as  if  they  were  as  good  as  the 
Twelve,  an'  I  shan't  call  'em  Christians.  The 
idear!  Jest  as  if  they  had  a  patent  on  the 
name.  They  don't  like  to  be  called  Campbell- 
ites,  but  I  shall  call  'em  Campbellites  the  hull 
time.  How  any  reasonable  human  being  can 
believe  in  the  docterns  of  that  church  does  beat 
me.  An'  there  they'll  set  an'  listen  to  jest  the 
scrappiest  kind  o'  sermons,  when,  by  crossin' 
7 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

the  street,  they  could  hear  your  husband's  stir- 
rin'  discourses." 

It  will  be  seen  from  this  that  Miss  Callista  was 
not  a  woman  of  broad  mind,  and  that,  though 
she  made  her  opinions  plain  to  the  comprehen- 
sion, they  were  not  expressed  in  that  correct  and 
elegant  language  so  desirable  in  the  teachers  of 
youth.  It  is  but  just,  however,  to  say  that  she 
was  aware  of  some  of  these  verbal  lapses.  As 
she  herself  remarked : 

"Nobody  understands  grammar,  and  what  is 
proper  language,  better  than  I  do,  and  in  school 
I  always  take  great  care  to  speak  correctly. 
When  I  come  home,  though,  it's  too  much 
trouble  to  be  thinking  of  the  parts  of  speech, 
and  I  drop  into  an  easier  sort  o'  talk,  as  I  put 
on  a  kitchen  apron  or  an  old  pair  o'  shoes." 

Her  idioms  and  accents  she  was  unconscious 
of,  and  therefore  could  not  drop.  The  born 
New  Englander  seldom  does.  She  would  say 
"Indianar,"  and  "  idear,"  and  "  Mariar  "  to 
the  end  of  her  days.  She  was  quick  to  detect 
what  she  considered  errors  in  others,  however. 

"'Bucket!'  Don't  let  me  hear  you  say 
'bucket,'  "  she  would  tell  her  pupils.  "It's 
a  ridiculous  word;  say  '  pail.'  And  don't  say 
8 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

you  'reckon '  or  'low '  you'll  do  so  and  so;  say 
'guess.'  ' 

Miss  Callista  had  come  West  to  teach  because, 
ev.en  if  she  could  get  a  school  at  her  home, 
with  all  the  eager  candidates  in  competition  for 
every  place,  better  salaries  were  paid  in  Indiana. 
For  her  own  part  she  would  have  preferred  to 
stay  in  Vermont,  even  with  the  scant  wages  of 
the  district  school,  but  she  had  a  mother  and 
sister  who  needed  her  earnings,  and  it  was  for 
them  she  started  out  to  seek  a  better  fortune. 
The  mother  was  a  widow  with  a  tiny  home  to 
call  her  own  and  an  income  hardly  in  proportion ; 
the  sister,  a  fragile  girl  with  the  New  England 
scourge,  consumption,  already  making  its  signs 
visible.  Miss  Callista  must  be  the  bread  win- 
ner, and  she  went  bravely  about  her  task. 
She  loved  her  family  and  her  home ;  she  had 
none  of  the  self-assertiveness  that  is  needed  for 
those  who  would  get  on  in  the  world;  she 
dreaded  the  separation  from  her  dear  ones,  and 
yet  it  never  occurred  to  her  to  rebel  against  fate 
that  made  such  a  trial  possible.  She  did  not 
dream  that  she  was  heroic,  and  yet  it  is  in  such 
actions  that  the  heroism  of  the  latter  days  is 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

found — a  heroism  not  less  than  that  which  led 
the  knights  of  old  on  their  crusades. 

Many  and  many  a  day  in  her  new  abiding  place 
homesickness  pressed  upon  her  like  a  tangible 
weight ;  her  heart  ached  for  a  sight  of  dear  faces 
and  familiar  scenes ;  the  very  sun  shining  in  the 
heavens  took  on  a  forbidding  look,  and  the  birds 
sang  a  melancholy  tune.  But  if  the  poor,  lonely 
little  woman  wept  it  was  when  no  one  knew. 
She  kept  a  brave  face  and  wrote  cheery  letters 
to  the  invalid  at  home.  Every  penny  of  her 
salary  but  that  which  supplied  her  own  barest 
needs  went  to  make  the  life  of  that  invalid  easier. 
She  not  only  made  no  complaint  over  her  own 
deprivations  and  sacrifices ;  she  made  the  sacri- 
fices gladly  and  did  not  know  them  to  be  such. 
Women  are  often  like  that.  If  the  beneficiaries 
accepted  the  gifts  as  a  matter  of  course  and 
without  appreciation  of  the  life  that  was  being 
jiven  also,  why,  that  was  not  unusual  either. 
The  human  creature  is  often  so. 

The  years  went  on  until  five  had  passed  since 
Miss  Callista  had  seen  the  faces  of  her  kin  and 
the  blue  Vermont  hills.  At  the  beginning  she 
had  not  dreamed  that  so  long  a  time  would 
elapse  before  she  could  return,  but  one  thing 
10 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

and  another  had  delayed  her  visit.  The  invalid 
sister  had  needed  so  many  things.  The  malady 
made  inroads  and  delicacies  were  wanted  to 
keep  up  her  strength;  medicines,  too,  and  the 
doctor  must  be  paid.  Once  a  famous  specialist 
came  up  from  Boston  to  see  her,  and  that  cost 
money.  This  fifth  winter  just  ended  had  been 
spent  by  the  ailing  one  in  Florida,  but  she  was 
now  at  home  again,  and  a  turn  of  fortune  in  the 
shape  of  a  railroad  rate  war  made  it  suddenly 
possible  for  Miss  Callista  to  go  to  see  her  and 
the  dear  mother.  The  cost  of  travel,  the  rival 
passenger  agents  declared,  was  less  than  that  of 
staying  at  home.  So,  the  spring  term  having 
just  ended,  she  joyfully  went  her  way. 

She  was  in  time  for  the  end.  Though  it  was 
early  June  and  the  sun  shone  with  torrid  strength 
on  the  Honeyport  prairie,  and  the  roses  were  in 
bloom,  it  was  not  so  surely  summer  but  that  a 
wintry  blast  swept  down  from  the  north  through 
the  Vermont  valleys  and  undid  all  the  healing 
wrought  by  the  Florida  airs.  The  ailing  sister 
was  cut  down  as  a  lily  by  the  frost.  She  died 
in  Miss  Callista's  arms — faithful  arms  that  had 
scarce  time  to  rest  before  they  held  the  mother's 
weary  form  while  her  soul  breathed  itself  away. 
II 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

The  mother  had  lived  for  the  stricken  daughter, 
and  that  beloved  life  ended,  she,  too,  was  done 
with  earth. 

The  summer  vacation  was  not  over  when  Miss 
Callista  came  back  to  Honeyport.  The  charm 
of  her  childhood's  home  was  gone.  Later  in 
life  the  glamour  of  the  mountains  would  come 
back  to  her  and  her  heart  would  yearn  for  a  sight 
of  them,  but  now  they  chilled  her  and  she  was 
glad  to  return  to  the  once  despised  village  on  the 
Wabash,  with  the  unbroken,  shadowless  land- 
scape and  the  level  horizon.  Out  of  the  old  home 
life  were  left  only  memories  and  a  few  household 
gods.  When  some  of  these  treasures  were  un- 
loaded at  the  door  of  her  Indiana  home — a 
heavy  oaken  secretary,  a  spindle-legged  table,  a 
straight-backed,  comfortless-looking  chair — the 
men  who  lifted  them  into  place  wondered  that 
she  went  to  the  expense  of  shipping  such  old- 
fashioned  furnishings  when  she  might  have 
bought  finer  ones  at  home  for  less  money.  But 
the  women  who  saw  them  did  not  wonder — 
women  who  had  found  for  themselves  how  the 
heart  clings  to  inanimate  things  when  they  alone 
are  left  to  speak  of  the  dead. 

So  Miss  Callista,   permanently  transplanted, 

12 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

settled  down  in  a  bit  of  a  cottage  next  to  the 
Presbyterian  parsonage,  still  occupied  by  her 
friends,  the  Evanses,  and  resumed  her  occupa- 
tion of  teaching.  There  was  no  one  now  to 
save  for  and  deny  herself  for,  but,  being  an  un- 
selfish creature,  this  only  brought  her  pain. 
Nevertheless,  as  time  went  on  life  grew  more 
comfortable  for  her.  She  indulged  in  an  occa- 
sional bit  of  finery;  now  and  then  she  went  on 
an  excursion  somewhere.  Once  she  went  to  In- 
dianapolis to  attend  the  state  fair,  and  once  she 
went  to  Chicago  and  came  back  dizzy  and  be- 
wildered, glad  to  be  in  the  quiet  home  away  from 
the  busy  whirl. 

The  years  went  on  until  more  than  fifteen 
had  passed  since  she  set  foot  on  Hoosier  soil. 
All  this  time  she  had  not  escaped  the  specula- 
tions all  normally  constituted  people  are  bound 
to  indulge  in  concerning  the  matrimonial  pros- 
pects of  their  spinster  friends.  It  was  assumed 
that  she  was  not  only  ready,  but  anxious  to 
marry  when  the  opportunity  and  the  man  offered, 
and  kindly  neighbors  kept  a  lookout  for  both. 
Miss  Callista  alone  seemed  indifferent.  Appar- 
ently she  took  no  thought  of  such  possibilities. 
She  was  polite  in  a  sedate  way  to  the  occasional 
13 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

marriageable  men  who  showed  a  disposition  to 
hover  around  her,  but  she  gave  encouragement 
to  none.  Her  Honeyport  friends  suspected  that 
she  had  wasted  her  heart  on  some  unapprecia- 
tive  Vermont  Yankee,  but  this  was  not  the  case. 
The  truth  was  that  the  marriageable  male  beings 
who  had  come  within  her  range  of  possibilities 
had  not  been  quite  to  her  liking.  The  farmers 
who  constituted  the  most  of  these  eligibles  were 
too  rough  and  careless  in  dress,  too  much  given 
to  tobacco  chewing  and  too  loudly  hilarious  in 
their  conversation  to  please  her  somewhat  fas- 
tidious taste.  She  may  not  have  cherished  a 
definite  ideal  of  the  man  who  would  meet  her 
requirements,  but  she  had  a  clear  conception  of 
what  would  not  do.  So  the  years  had  gone 
swiftly  by,  bringing  few  changes  in  the  routine 
of  her  life,  or  even  in  her  appearance.  She  was 
a  plump  and  comely  body,  and  in  some  respects 
more  attractive  than  in  her  younger  days,  for 
lines  of  care  and  anxiety  and  homesickness  had 
given  way  to  placid  contentment  in  her  work 
and  in  every-day  affairs.  She  looked  forward 
to  no  change  in  her  mode  of  life  or  her  experi- 
ences, but,  as  so  often  happens  when  change 
comes  into  an  uneventful  existence,  it  comes  un- 
14 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

expectedly  and  creates  a  complete  transforma- 
tion in  the  little  world. 

Mrs.  Evans,  still  her  nearest  neighbor  and 
closest  friend,  fell  ill  and  came  swiftly  down  to 
death's  door.  Before  she  passed  through  she 
said  to  Miss  Callista,  who  was  her  faithful  at- 
tendant : 

"When  I  am  gone  Calvin  will  marry  again 
after  a  proper  time.  He  will;  oh,  yes.  It  is  a 
man's  way,  and  it  will  be  Calvin's  way.  He 
will  need  somebody  to  look  after  him.  I  want 
you  to  be  the  one,  and  I  have  told  him  so.  You 
will  know  how  and  will  do  for  him  as  I  would." 

This  was  said  gaspingly  between  paroxysms 
of  pain,  but  with  all  the  firmness  and  decision 
for  which  Mrs.  Evans  was  noted  when  at  her 
best  estate.  It  was  the  supreme  proof  of  a 
woman's  faith  in  another  that  she  could  put  her 
husband  into  her  keeping,  and,  having  given  it, 
she  closed  her  eyes  and  opened  them  no  more. 

This  last  communication  made  a  powerful  im- 
pression on  Miss  Callista.  It  was  a  startling 
surprise,  but  she  accepted  it  unquestioningly  as 
a  guide  to  her  future. 

What  Mrs.  Evans  wanted  Mr.  Evans  to  do  had 
always  been  done,  and  she  had  not  the  faintest 
IS 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

doubt  that  he  would  follow  his  wife's  instruc- 
tions in  this,  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do 
in  all  other  matters. 

She  grieved  for  her  friend's  death,  but  almost 
insensibly  she  began  to  adjust  herself  to  coming 
conditions.  The  bereaved  man  assumed  the 
conventional  appearance  of  gentle  melancholy 
by  which  the  newly-made  widower  is  so  easily 
recognized,  and  his  earliest  sermons  had  a  ten- 
derly pathetic  tone  that  she,  in  common  with 
the  other  women  of  the  congregation,  considered 
very  touching  and  appropriate.  But  even  in 
this  sacred  stage  of  his  widowerhood  she  felt 
herself  looking  upon  him  with  a  new  interest  and 
a  secret  sense  of  possession.  She  had  been 
brought  up  to  revere  ministers  as  a  class,  and 
had  always  had  a  respectful  regard  for  Mr.  Ev- 
ans because  of  his  profession  and  because  he  had 
been  kind  to  her.  He  was  not  her  ideal  of 
manly  beauty,  being  gaunt  of  frame  and  bald  of 
head ;  moreover,  he  was  twenty  years  older  than 
she,  being  nearly  sixty.  However,  she  recog- 
nized the  fact  that  it  was  not  for  her  to  make  age 
a  barrier,  since  no  widower  of  sixty  was  likely 
to  consider  himself  other  than  desirable  even  to 
a  maid  of  twenty. 

16 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

She  also  confessed  to  herself  that  she  had 
always  considered  the  wife  of  a  minister  blessed 
among  women,  and  that,  while  she  had  never 
hoped  to  marry  one,  the  sudden  and  unex- 
pected prospect  of  doing  so  was  very  agree- 
able indeed.  She  felt  herself  fitted  to  the  labor 
of  smoothing  life's  pathway  for  a  servant  of 
the  Lord.  Not  that  she  could  assist  in  sermon- 
writing,  as  she  had  suspected  the  first  Mrs.  Ev- 
ans of  doing,  but  she  could  minister  to  his  com- 
fort in  a  more  material  way.  She  could  take 
household  cares  from  his  shoulders ;  she  could 
make  him  presentable  to  the  public;  she  could 
keep  him  posted  on  many  ins  and  outs  of  the 
parish;  above  all,  she  could  feed  him  well,  and 
she  held  that  of  all  men  ministers  needed  to  be 
well  fed.  She  considered  it  a  reasonable  propo- 
sition that  a  man  could  administer  a  far  higher 
degree  of  spiritual  consolation  to  his  flock  when 
his  stomach  was  comfortably  filled  than  when  it 
was  empty  or  dyspeptic  from  poor  food. 

The  very  church  building  began  to  take  on  a 
new  aspect.  She  saw  that  it  needed  a  new  car- 
pet and  a  coat  of  paint,  and  her  mind  leaped 
forward  to  the  time  when,  as  minister's  wife,  she 
could  have  an  influence  in  bringing  such  im- 

2  17 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

provements  about.  But  she  kept  all  such 
thoughts  concealed  in  her  own  heart.  Her 
manner  toward  her  pastor  was  more  sedate  and 
dignified  than  ever.  The  knowledge  imparted 
by  her  deceased  friend  had  given  her  a  self-con- 
sciousness which  put  an  end  to  the  little  neigh- 
borly attentions  she  had  been  accustomed  to  of- 
fer when  the  wife  was  alive,  such  as  sending 
over  a  favorite  dish,  or  now  and  then  an  em- 
broidered handkerchief,  or  even  taking  his  hose 
from  the  mending  basket  and  darning  them  in 
the  highest  style  of  the  art.  Now,  she  thought, 
such  things  would  "make  talk" — dreadful  bug- 
bear of  lone  women — and  she  left  Mr.  Evans 
entirely  to  the  mercies  of  Nancy,  his  inefficient 
and  elderly  serving  woman,  and  to  other  female 
parishioners  who,  with  husbands  to  approve 
their  actions,  might  safely  venture  where  she 
could  not  tread. 

It  was  the  more  easy  to  give  up  her  accus- 
tomed service  in  her  reverend  neighbor's  house 
from  the  fact  that  her  spare  hours  were  now 
largely  devoted  to  the  entertainment  of  the  Lit- 
tledale  twins — the  three-year-old  children  of  the 
Rev.  Amos  Littledale,  the  Campbellite  minister, 
who  lived  across  the  street. 
18 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

Miss  Callista's  animosity  to  the  Campbellites 
had  in  no  wise  abated,  and  was  generally  under- 
stood in  the  community,  but  the  feeling  was  di- 
rected to  them  as  a  sect  and  not  as  individuals. 
Certainly,  it  did  not  include  the  babies,  especially 
such  sweet  and  attractive  ones  as  these.  Long 
before  their  mother  died,  several  months  back, 
her  heart  had  gone  out  to  those  twins,  and  when 
they  manifested  a  fondness  for  her,  based  though 
she  knew  it  was  on  her  supply  of  buns  and  cook- 
ies, she  became  their  devoted  friend.  She  had 
once  confided  to  Mrs.  Evans,  with  a  maidenly 
blush,  that  if  she  had  been  married  and  the 
Lord  had  seen  fit  to  bless  her  with  children,  she 
would  have  liked  twins. 

Mr.  Littledale's  young  sister  was  his  house- 
keeper and  guardian  of  the  babies,  and  Miss 
Callista,  seeing  that  the  burden  of  care  was 
heavy  for  the  girl,  cheerfully  relieved  and 
aided  her  in  many  ways.  It  would  do  no 
harm  to  make  the  young  things  happy  while 
it  could  be  done,  she  thought.  "It  wasn't  at  all 
likely  they  would  have  much  chance  to  be  hap- 
py if  their  father  married  that  flirty  young  Mat- 
tie  Stone,  over  on  the  West  pike,  as  seemed 
likely.  Strange  that  a  man  couldn't  show  bet- 
19 


ter  judgment  when  he  married,  especially  when 
he  took  a  second  partner.  There  was  Mr.  Lit- 
tledale,  all  of  thirty-one,  or  maybe  thirty-two 
years  old,  and  Mat  Stone  wasn't  over  twenty, 
and  a  giddy  piece,  too.  There  was  Jane  Em- 
bree,  steady  and  settled,  and  of  a  suitable  age, 
and  willing,  and  he  never  so  much  as  looked  her 
way.  But  law  sakes,  what  could  you  expect  of 
a  man  and  a  preacher  at  that,  in  a  church  that 
had  the  hull  New  Testament  for  its  creed  and  no 
confession  of  faith  and  no  definite  thing  you 
could  get  at  to  tell  what  the  members  did  be- 
lieve, or  why  they  couldn't  be  just  plain  Baptists, 
or  even  Methodists  or  Presbyterians,  who  will  im- 
merse you  if  you  insist  on  it?" 

But,  with  all  her  absorption  in  the  infants  Miss 
Callista  did  not  fail  to  keep  a  watchful  eye  on 
Widower  Evans.  She  was  a  woman  and  not  un- 
observant, and  had  therefore  not  failed  to  note 
the  peculiarities  of  widowers.  She  knew  at  about 
what  period  deepest  grief  began  to  lift  its  clouds 
and  life  present  some  attractions  once  more ;  it 
was  a  very  early  period  in  a  majority  of  cases. 
She  could  invariably  detect  the  first  indications 
that  the  bereaved  one  was  '  'able  to  take  notice, ' ' 
as  cynical  old  ladies  have  it ;  she  knew  well  the 
20 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

signs  that  he  was  not  only  contemplating  further 
matrimonial  possibilities  in  a  general  way,  but 
also  when  he  had  ceased  to  generalize  and  had 
fixed  his  eye  upon  a  concrete  individual  as  a  de- 
sirable consoler.  She  saw  Mr.  Evans  emerge 
into  the  first  of  these  stages,  her  proximity  as 
next-door  neighbor  being  a  point  of  vantage. 
He  shaved  oftener  than  he  had  been  accustomed 
to  doing;  he  buttoned  his  frock  coat  when  he 
went  out,  instead  of  allowing  it  to  hang  open  in 
a  saggy,  slovenly  way;  he  carried  himself  more 
erectly,  and  with  almost  a  jaunty  air.  Before 
his  best  coat  was  in  the  least  shiny  he  began  to 
wear  it  every  day,  and  bought  a  new  one  for 
Sundays. 

Miss  Callista  observed  this  piece  of  extrava- 
gance with  a  thrill ;  it  was  significant  of  imme- 
diate activity  in  the  matrimonial  field.  It  was 
barely  six  months  since  Mrs.  Evans  had  died, 
but  her  expectant  successor  considered  it  prob- 
able that  he  would  wish  to  marry  as  soon  as  the 
conventional  year  of  mourning  had  expired,  and 
it  was  a  matter  of  course  that  the  necessary  pre- 
liminaries should  be  arranged  before  that  date. 

Almost  unconsciously  she  began  to  preen  her- 
self like  a  little  bird  in  the  spring.  Her  brown 

21 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

hair  waved  with  an  extra  crinkle;  she  put  a 
fresh  bow  on  her  summer  bonnet  and  wore  a 
pink  ribbon  at  her  throat  where  brown  had  been. 
People  said  how  young  Miss  Callista  looked  and 
how  well  she  "held  her  age."  They  also  be- 
gan to  say  what  a  suitable  wife  she  would  make 
for  Mr.  Evans;  some  of  them,  in  the  free- 
spoken  rural  way,  said  it  to  her,  and  made  her 
blush  and  try  to  look  angry.  But  they  began 
to  say,  too,  that  Mr.  Evans  seemed  to  be  look- 
ing with  a  favorable  eye  upon  the  Widow  Jack- 
son, out  on  West  Main  street.  He  had  been 
seen  to  walk  home  with  her  from  prayer- meet- 
ing, and  he  dropped  in  with  what  some  con- 
sidered needless  frequency  to  administer  spiritual 
consolation  to  the  widow's  son,  who  was  in  the 
last' stages  of  what  was  known  as  "decline." 

This  information  gave  Miss  Callista  a  shock. 
Could  it  be  possible,  she  asked  herself,  that  he 
was  about  to  disregard  his  wife's  dying  injunc- 
tion? He  showed  no  indications  of  any  leaning 
in  her  direction,  save  that  he  had  come  over 
once  or  twice  in  a  neighborly  way,  and  when 
other  neighbors  were  present,  to  sit  on  her  little 
porch  and  chat  in  the  twilight.  But  he  had 
never  walked  home  with  her  from  prayer-meet- 

22 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

ing,  though  she  attended  regularly  and  it  was 
right  in  his  way.  She  cogitated  over  the  matter 
a  good  deal,  and  as  a  result  of  her  reflections 
decided  upon  what  she  considered  a  bold  move 
and  a  counter  attraction  to  the  widow's  bland- 
ishments. She  resolved  to  invite  him  to  supper, 
no  matter  if  folks  did  say  she  was  setting  her 
cap  for  him.  She  wasn't  doing  anything  of  the 
kind,  and  she  wasn't  anyways  anxious,  she  said 
to  herself,  to  marry  him,  but  something  was 
due  to  her  friend  Mrs.  Evans;  and  certainly  that 
lady  would  not  approve  of  Mrs.  Jackson.  And 
what  a  poor  figure  she  would  cut  at  the  head  of 
the  missionary  society  and  the  sewing  circle, 
sure  enough!  Perhaps,  it  was  her  (Miss  Cal- 
lista's)  duty  gently  to  remind  him  of  his  late 
partner's  wishes.  So  she  spent  the  most  of  one 
Saturday  afternoon  in  concocting  the  preacher's 
favorite  dishes,  and  when  they  were  ready  to 
serve,  stepped  to  the  back  fence,  and,  in  a 
casual  way,  as  if  it  were  a  sudden  thought, 
asked  him  to  come  over  and  have  a  bit  of  sup- 
per. She  said,  she  knew  Nancy  had  gone  to 
see  her  folks,  and  she  thought  he  might  enjoy  a 
cup  of  tea  and  something  warm  instead  of  a  cold 
bite  by  himself. 

23 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

He  came  with  alacrity,  and  was  presently 
installed  at  the  table  with  Miss  Callista  op- 
posite and  a  Littledale  twin  at  each  side  of  her. 
It  had  seemed  to  her  that  the  presence  of  the 
twins  would  at  once  preserve  the  proprieties 
and  offer  no  barrier  to  confidential  conversa- 
tion. The  babies  behaved  like  little  angels, 
but  there  was  no  conversation  that  all  the 
world  might  not  have  heard.  She  plied  her 
guest  with  fried  chicken,  with  the  lightest  of 
rolls,  with  strawberry  shortcake  and  with  his 
favorite  temperance  tipple  of  diluted  blackberry 
cordial,  put  up  by  her  own  hands  the  year  be- 
fore. He  ate  heartily  and  joyously,  and  made 
a  variety  of  facetious  remarks  to  the  twins,  but 
he  went  home  without  so  much  as  a  look  indi- 
cating a  thought  of  his  wife's  sacred  injunction. 

Miss  Callista  did  not  like  it.  She  took  the 
twins  to  their  gate  and  kissed  them  good-night 
with  an  abruptness  and  irritation  of  manner 
hitherto  unknown  to  them.  She  was  beginning 
to  have  a  little  resentment  on  her  own  account 
as  well  as  on  that  of  the  departed  Mrs.  Evans, 
whose  request  was  being  ignored.  Her  vanity 
was  touched.  Queer  taste  a  man  had,  she 
thought,  who  could  see  anything  in  that  Widow 
24 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

Jackson  better  than  he  saw  in  her ;  and  every- 
body knew  the  widow  couldn't  cook  a  decent 
meal  to  save  her  life. 

Miss  Callista  was  modest,  but  no  woman  is  so 
unduly  self-depreciating  that  she  does  not  se- 
cretly recognize  her  own  superiority  to  certain 
other  women. 

But  the  supper  did  have  its  effect,  after  all, 
for  during  the  weeks  following  Mr.  Evans  fell 
into  the  way  of  walking  home  with  Miss  Cal- 
lista after  Sunday  evening  service  and  of  coming 
oftener  to  sit  on  her  porch  in  the  dusk.  But  he 
did  not  discontinue  his  visits  to  the  widow.  The 
situation  was  quite  interesting  to  the  parishion- 
ers and  the  village  gossips,  and  people  began  to 
take  sides.  The  women  discussed  the  matter 
over  the  back  fences,  and  the  men  who  sat 
around  the  grocery  stores  wagered  small  sums 
on  the  cutcome. 

One  day  in  August  Miss  Callista  was  surprised 
by  the  receipt  of  a  letter.  It  was  from  Mr. 
Evans,  who  had  been  spending  a  week  or  so 
with  a  sister  in  Lafayette.  It  read  thus: 

"  Miss  Callista — Esteemed  Friend:  I  take  this  means 
of  addressing  you  in  regard  to  an  important  matter.  When 
my  lamented  Jane  was  in  her  last  illness,  she  foresaw  that 

25 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

I  should  find  the  burden  of  loneliness  too  great  to  bear,  and 
she  advised  me  to  marry  again  after  a  proper  time  had 
passed,  and  strongly  recommended  you  as  a  suitable  part- 
ner. Indeed,  she  was  so  urgent  that  she  exacted  a  promise 
that  I  would  follow  her  advice.  At  that  time  I  was  much 
agitated  and  distressed,  and  scarcely  knew  what  I  was 
saying,  but  since  I  have  recently  come  to  reflect  upon  the 
matter  it  has  seemed  to  me  that  her  views  were  very 
judicious.  The  time  is  near  when  I  can,  without  re- 
proach, enter  again  into  the  marriage  state,  and  for  many 
reasons  it  seems  expedient  for  me  to  do  so.  Inasmuch 
as  you  were  on  terms  of  close  friendship  with  my  dear 
Jane,  and  will  doubtless  desire,  as  I  do,  to  carry  out  her 
wishes  as  far  as  possible  in  all  respects,  I  ask  your  con- 
sideration of  the  matter  in  hand.  As  my  wife  you  can 
greatly  increase  your  field  of  usefulness,  and  I  feel  assured 
that  the  Lord  will  fit  your  strength  to  the  new  duties  and 
responsibilities.  I  write  this  in  order  to  prepare  your 
mind.  I  shall  return  to-morrow  and  will  call  on  you, 
when  we  can  discuss  the  subject  in  all  its  bearings. 
"Yours  in  the  Lord, 

"CALVIN  H.  EVANS." 

Miss  Callista  read  this  epistle  several  times. 
At  first  she  experienced  a  sense  of  triumph  and 
elation.  There  was  no  longer  any  doubt  about 
the  matter.  She,  and  not  the  Widow  Jackson, 
had  won  the  prize.  On  the  second  reading  she 
added  the  comment,  "if  he  is  a  prize."  The 
third  time  red  spots  began  to  grow  on  her 


26 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

cheeks,  and  she  talked  to  herself  as  people  who 
live  alone  are  apt  to  do. 

' '  He  talks  as  if  he  were  asking  me  to  marry 
him  all  on  his  first  wife's  account,  and  had  no 
special  interest  in  the  matter  himself.  Mrs. 
Evans  was  a  good  woman,  but  another  woman 
wants  some  better  reason  for  marrying  the  wid- 
ower than  that.  And  then  he  doesn't  out  and 
out  ask  me  to  marry  him;  jest  takes  it  for 
granted  that  I  will  jump  at  the  chance  once  my 
mind  is  prepared.  Conceited  old  thing,  if  he  is 
a  preacher.  He  seems  to  have  some  doubt, 
too,  of  my  being  equal  to  the  new  duties,  and 
— and  he  never  even  says  he  likes  me  or  will 
try  to  make  me  happy,  or  anything.  A  woman, 
even  if  she  is  going  to  be  a  second  wife  and  isn't 
as  young  as  she  was,  wants  a  little  love-making 
on  her  own  account." 

Miss  Callista  did  not  reflect,  or  perhaps  did 
not  know,  that  men  to  whom  it  is  not  given  to 
be  sentimental  and  affectionate  on  pa^>er  are 
sometimes  most  eloquent  of  speech  in  the  tender 
cause.  She  continued  to  cherish  resentment, 
but,  nevertheless,  went  about  preparing  green 
corn  fritters  incase  the  parson  should  happen  in 
about  supper  time. 

27 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

The  twins  happened  in,  as  they  were  wont  to 
do  whenever  they  found  the  gates  unfastened, 
and  after  them  presently  came  their  father  osten- 
sibly in  search  of  the  truants.  He  had  come 
so  often  on  the  same  errand  that  he  was  quite  at 
home,  and  detected  at  once  Miss  Callista's  ap- 
pearance of  irritation,  for  there  was  a  dangerous 
sparkle  in  her  usually  mild  eyes. 

"Have  the  children  worried  you?  I  will  take 
them  home  at  once,"  he  said. 

"Worry  me — those  dear  babies?  No,  indeed ; 
they  couldn't  do  that.  Older  people  than  they 
are  the  ones  who  worry." 

Rev.  Mr.  Littledale  might  have  made  a  repu- 
tation in  the  legal  profession,  he  had  such  a 
knack  of  getting  the  information  he  wanted  by 
skillful  but  apparently  purposeless  questioning. 
Miss  Callista  had  no  intention  of  telling  about 
Mr.  Evans's  proposal,  or,  more  accurately,  his 
proposition,  but  she  was  full  of  the  subject,  and 
presently  sat  down  on  the  sofa  in  the  cool  lit- 
tle parlor,  the  twins  promptly  climbing  up  and  sit- 
ting one  on  each  side  with  their  arms  about  her. 

"What  would  you  think,  Mr.  Littledale,  of  a 
man  who  would  ask  a  woman  to  be  his  second 
wife  just  because  he  thought  it  would  please  his 
28 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

first  wife?  I  know — I  know  a  lady — I  have 
heard  of  a  case  of  the  kind." 

Mr.  Littledale  was  shrewd.  He  had  had  his 
eye  on  Mr.  Evans,  and  needed  to  know  no  more. 

"Miss  Callista,"  said  he  promptly  and  with 
shameless  disregard  of  the  other  man's  possible 
claims,  "Miss  Callista,  such  a  man  isn't  worth 
thinking  about.  He's  a  selfish  wretch,  and  no 
woman  could  be  happy  with  him.  A  second 
wife  deserves  as  much  consideration  as  the  first, 
and  on  her  own  account,  too.  And  while  we 
are  talking  about  marrying,  Miss  Callista,  shall 
I  tell  you  what  I  have  been  wanting  to  say  for 
some  time?  I  want  you  for  my  wife.  I  love 
you,  Miss  Callista;  the  twins  love  you;  won't 
you  come  to  us?" 

The  twins ,  cherubic  creatures ,  promptly  echoed , 
"  Love  oo,  Miss  C'lista,"  and  proceeded  to  em- 
brace her,  but  were  dispossessed  by  their  parent. 

Miss  Callista  was  taken  completely  by  sur- 
prise, but  this  variety  of  surprise  never  wholly 
disconcerts  the  most  timid  of  women.  She 
thought  rapidly  for  a  moment. 

"There!  Mr.  Littledale  's  been  dropping  in 
all  summer,  staying  to  supper  and  making  him- 
self at  home  generally,  and  I  never  thought  any- 
29 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

thing  of  it,  because  he's  younger  than  I  be; 
and,  besides,  I  s' posed  he  was  engaged  to  that 
Stone  girl.  Folks  will  say  I  tried  to  catch  him. ' ' 

Like  a  flash,  too,  came  the  thought:  "  If  I 
say  yes,  Mr.  Evans  will  have  to  look  somewhere 
else,  and  I  don't  care  if  he  does.  I  never  made 
any  promise  to  Jane.  The  Widow  Jackson  can 
have  him." 

What  Miss  Callista  said  was:  "Why,  Mr. 
Littledale,  I'm  seven  years  older  than  you  be, 
and — and  I'm  a  Presbyterian." 

"What  do  a  few  years  matter?  We  won't 
count  them,"  was  the  reply.  "And  I'm  sure 
I  have  nothing  against  Presbyterians.  If  you 
mean  that  I'm  a  Campbellite,  why,  please  try 
to  forgive  me." 

Evidently  he  received  forgiveness,  for  when 
Mr.  Evans  arrived  that  evening  he  found  Mr. 
Littledale  sitting  with  Miss  Callista  on  the  vine- 
covered  porch,  and  the  corn  fritters  had  all  been 
eaten.  The  new  condition  of  affairs  was  gently 
disclosed  to  him  by  his  successful  rival,  and  he 
was  perceptibly  discomfited.  He  had,  perhaps, 
not  valued  Miss  Callista  at  her  true  worth  while 
he  considered  her  his  for  the  asking,  but  now 
that  another  man  had  taken  her  from  him  she 
30 


AN  IDYL  OF  THE  WABASH 

suddenly  seemed  highly  desirable.  Possibly 
the  discovery  of  Rev.  Evans's  designs  may  have 
inspired  Mr.  Littledale  to  unpremeditated  action, 
but  this  is  only  a  surmise.  It  is  the  way  of  man 
to  be  so  influenced.  Mr.  Evans  made  but  a 
short  call,  and  when  he  entered  his  own  home 
the  door  was  heard  to  slam  with  what  seemed 
unnecessary  violence. 

But  the  Presbyterian  pastor  was  not  inconso- 
lable. The  very  next  evening  he  walked  home 
with  the  widow  Jackson  from  prayer-meeting 
and  stayed  till  IO  o'clock.  The  morning  after, 
the  widow,  under  strict  injunction  of  secrecy, 
told  Deacon  Todd's  wife  of  her  engagement, 
and  by  night  the  whole  town  knew  of  it. 

Miss  Callista  also  confided  in  Mrs.  Todd. 

"I  never  would  have  supposed  that  I'd  marry 
a  Campbellite,  that  is,  a  Disciple — never,  or 
that  I'd  be  one  myself.  Of  course,  a  minister's 
wife  ought,  in  all  decency,  to  belong  to  his 
church,  and,  of  course,  I  will.  I  ought  to  be 
able  to  accept  the  doctern  if  it's  the  hull  New 
Testament,  as  they  say.  And  there!  I'll  have 
to  be  immersed,  too,  I  s'pose.  I  hadn't  thought 
of  that ;  but  I  guess  I  can  stand  it  to  go  through 
water,  or  fire  either,  for  them  blessed  twins." 
31 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

npHIRTY  years  ago  a  certain  railroad  in  In- 
1  diana  was  new  enough  to  be  still  a  source  of 
deep  interest  and  curiosity  to  the  people  of  the 
sparsely-settled  region  through  which  it  passed. 
They  had  not  yet  ceased  to  gather  at  the  stations, 
morning  and  evening,  to  see  the  "down  train" 
and  the  "up  train."  The  projectors  of  this 
thoroughfare,  having  in  view,  perhaps,  legisla- 
tive appropriations  and  private  subscriptions  of 
stock,  had  artfully  led  the  public  to  think  that  a 
farming  country  of  marvelous  richness  was  suf- 
fering for  an  outlet ;  that  passengers  and  produce 
impatiently  waited  to  crowd  its  cars.  So  im- 
pressed were  guileless  citizens  with  this  idea  that 
only  a  brave  man  or  a  fool  would  have  dared  to 
say:  "Goto!  We  need  no  railroad."  Thus 
far  in  the  existence  of  the  road  the  great  rush  of 
travel  and  traffic  had  not  begun ;  in  the  mean- 
32 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

time,  one  train  daily  each  way  was  found  enough 
for  all  needs. 

Few  among  the  rural  population  along  the 
route  ever  went  from  home;  fewer  still  ex- 
pected visitors.  Yet  they  went  regularly  to 
see  the  engine  and  the  gayly  painted  cars ;  they 
indulged  in  wild  speculations  as  to  the  probable 
business  and  destination  of  the  travelers  of  whom 
they  caught  glimpses.  The  occasional  stranger 
who  stopped  at  any  village  was  confronted  on 
the  platform  by  groups  of  men  in  blue  or  butter- 
nut jeans,  all  chewing  tobacco  and  expectorat- 
ing profusely.  He  passed  women  in  lank  calico 
dresses  and  limp  calico  sunbonnets — some  old 
and  wrinkled,  some  young  enough  to  be  pretty, 
but,  with  rare  exceptions,  hopelessly  plain.  Even 
the  dull-eyed  babies,  in  their  mothers'  arms, 
lacked  the  charm  of  health  and  wholesomeness. 
If  the  traveler  chanced  to  wonder  how  one  woman, 
with  an  expanse  of  toothless  gums,  could  endure 
to  smile,  he  might  marvel  that  the  next  one  ap- 
peared in  public  before  having  her  unsightly 
teeth  removed.  And  while  he  considered  the 
sad  effect  of  quinine,  soda  and  tobacco  on  human 
beauty,  he  would  have  been  amazed  had  he 
known  the  curiosity  his  own  person  excited. 
3  33 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

"Who  is  he?"  "Where  does  he  live  at?" 
"What  brings  him  down  this  away?"  "How 
long  will  he  stay?"  were  questions  eagerly  dis- 
cussed. 

The  railroad  had  given  them  something  to 
think  about.  Do  you  know  what  that  means, 
you  who  have  never  lived  in  the  country,  remote 
from  a  business  center?  It  means  that  the  resi- 
dents, having  little  outside  interest,  few  books, 
perhaps  no  newspapers  (there  are  such  places 
yet),  have  narrowed  their  lives  down  until  fresh 
subjects  for  thought  and  conversation  are  rare. 
They  have  talked  about  each  other,  about  the 
crops,  the  calves,  the  pigs  and  the  weather,  until 
each  man  knows  what  another  is  going  to  say 
while  he  is  yet  afar  off.  Any  unusual  event,  a 
death,  an  elopement,  a  fire,  is  seized  upon,  talked 
about  from  every  point  of  view,  turned  to  every 
light,  over  and  over,  until  each  thread  and  shred 
of  the  story  is  worn  with  age.  Finally,  it  seems 
to  die  away,  but  suddenly  revives,  and  passes  on 
its  round  until  set  aside  by  something  equally 
startling.  Think,  then,  of  the  vast  store  of  en- 
tertainment afforded  by  a  railroad ! 

On  this  October  evening,  thirty  years  ago, 
the  echoing  scream  of  the  locomotive,  strange  to 
34 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

say,  did  not  draw  out  the  usual  number  of  idlers 
to  gape,  open-mouthed,  as  the  train  halted, 
then  passed  on.  More  strange  still,  many  pas- 
sengers alighted  at  each  stopping  place — the  na- 
tfves,  themselves,  returning  home  with  the  air  of 
adventurers,  breathing  sighs  of  relief,  too,  as  of 
having  safely  accomplished  a  perilous  journey. 
Capacious  lunch-baskets,  as  well  as  certain  addi- 
tions to  their  every-day  attire — wide  hoop- 
skirts  on  the  women,  shirt-collars  on  the  men, 
for  example — suggested  that  some  sort  of  festiv- 
ities had  been  indulged  in. 

As  the  excursionists  lingered,  reluctant  to  go 
while  anything  remained  to  be  seen,  their  last 
glances  turned  from  the  long  line  of  crowded  pas- 
senger coaches  to  a  baggage-car  with  the  doors 
tightly  closed,  and  a  curious  hush  fell  on  them  as 
it  rolled  by.  What  did  it  mean?  A  "through 
passenger,"  in  search  of  knowledge,  found  the 
path  an  easy  one.  The  long,  lean  man  at  his  side, 
with  sunburned,  straggling  beard  and  a  mouth 
like  a  cavern,  was  full  of  information.  "Political 
meetin' !  Lord,  no !  'Lections  stirs  a  feller  up 
some,  but  there  ain't  ary  stump-speaker  in  In- 
diana 'at  kin  fetch  sech  an  all-fired  big  crowd  as 
was  out  to  Newburg  to-day.  Hangin'  yo' 
35 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

know — Bill  Murdock's.  Hain't  heard  about 
him?  Reckon  yo'  cain't  live  'round  hyer,  any- 
wheres, or  yo'd  a  knowed  the  peticklers.  Been 
a  powerful  sight  o'  talk  about  it,  fust  an'  last. 
Yo'  see  't  happened  'bout  this  hyer  way:  Bill, 
he  tuck  a  notion  one  night,  nigh  two  months  ago 
now,  'at  he'd  go  down  to  the  Corners  to  Gim- 
ble's  an'  get  some  ten-penny  nails. 

"He  was  a-workin'  old  Carter's  farm  on  the 
sheers  an'  lived  up  there,  full  two  mile  from  the 
Corners.  His  wife  was  a  finicky  little  critter, 
with  a  mite  of  a  baby,  an'  'peared  like  she  had 
a  warnin'  o'  some  kind,  for  she  done  her  best  to 
coax  him  to  stay  to  home.  But  go  he  would, 
though  what  he  wanted  with  them  nails  jest  at 
that  time,  more  'an  a  pin  with  two  heads,  no 
one  could  ever  make  out.  After  he'd  bought 
'em  an'  talked  with  the  fellers  in  the  store  a  bit 
— mebbe  had  a  drink  or  two  in  the  back  room 
— in  come  Jake  Jillson.  Jake  was  a  airy  sorto' 
chap — could  afford  to  be,  'cause  his  father  'd 
left  him  one  o'  the  best  farms  in  the  township, 
an'  he  was  beholden  to  nobody.  Well,  there'd 
been  some  old  grutch  atween  him  an'  Bill — no 
one  knows  zackly  what.  Some  says  Jake  had 
courted  Bill's  wife  in  times  past,  an'  that  she 
36 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

throwed  him  over;  but  I  don't  reckon  that  waa 
it.  Jake  was  married  two  years  afore  Bill  was, 
an'  taint  no  ways  likely  'at  a  female  woman  'u'd 
give  a  well-to-do  feller  like  Jake  the  go-by  an' 
take  up  with  a  pore  man  like  Bill.  They're  too 
long-headed,  women  be.  'T  any  rate,  however 
'twas,  the  two  soon  come  to  a  quarrel.  Nobody 
'at  heard  'em  seems  to  agree  jest  how  it  was. 
Jake  he  was  aggravatin'  an'  kep'  anaggin'.  Bill 
allays  was  high-tempered,  an'  fore  anyone  seen 
'at  they  was  really  in  airnest,  Bill  he  was  chasin' 
of  Jake  over  the  boxes  an'  bar'ls.  It  was  on'y 
a  minute  afore  he  ketched  him  an'  hit  him.  The 
breath  was  knocked  out  o'  Jake  for  good  an'  all 
with  that  air  very  pound  o'  ten-penny  nails. 

"Jerusalem!  What  a  racket  it  raised !  After 
the  folks  come  to  their  senses  like,  they  got  the 
sheriff  an'  a  posse  o'  constables  an'  scoured 
around  the  country  right  smart  of  a  spell  huntin' 
Bill,  afore  they  thought  o'  going  to  his  house. 
At  last  they  went  there  an'  found  him  a-walkin' 
the  floor  with  his  baby.  He  was  teetotallj 
wropped  up  in  that  woman  an'  young  un  o'  his, 
but  sick  baby  or  not  he  was  drug  off  to  jail, 
an'  not  a  minute  too  soon.  A  lot  o'  men  in 
masks  camea-gallopin'  down,  an'  would  a'  made 
37 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

short  work  o'  him  if  he'd  been  there.  No,  I 
don't  know  who  they  were,  an'  ef  I  did,  'twould 
be  safe  fer  to  keep  my  mouth  shet.  These  hyer 
things  hev  to  be  looked  after  now  an'  then — the 
law  bein'  so  slow  an'  oncertain.  Wasn't  much 
time  lost,  though,  on  this  case.  The  jury 
wouldn't  a'  dared  to  a'  brought  in  ary  other 
verdict  than  guilty,  considerin'  how  many  rich 
relations  Jake  had  scattered  about  this  county. 
They'd  made  it  mighty  lively  for  ary  juryman 
'at  would  vote  to  clear  his  murderer.  An'  so 
Bill,  bein',  as  I  said,  a  pore  man,  with  no  friends 
to  help  him,  had  no  show,  an'  had  to  swing. 
'Twas  all  right,  I  reckon ;  somebody  has  to  be 
made  a  example  of. 

"Me  an'  Mandy — that's  her  in  the  red  caliker 
a  settin'  over  yonder — 'lowed  we'd  go  up  to 
Newburg  to-day,  where  the  hangin'  was  at. 
Hadn't  ary  one  of  us  ever  saw  a  man  hung,  an' 
she  hadn't  never  been  on  the  steam  kyars.  I 
hadn't  no  notion  o'  takin'  the  boys,  but  Mandy, 
she  says,  'Lawsy,  let  'em  go,  it'll  be  a  warnin' 
to  'em  to  behave  theirselves  when  they've 
growed  up.'  So  we  all  went.  An'  jeminey! 
what  a  crowd !  Best  part  o'  two  counties  there, 
I  reckon." 

38 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

After  a  pause,  during  which  the  long,  lean 
man  ejected  tobacco  juice  vigorously  across  the 
traveler  into  the  aisle,  he  added  reflectively: 
"A  circus,  I'm  free  to  say,  would  a'  been  more 
to  my  taste,  but  it  wouldn't  a'  been  so  im- 
provin'  to  the  community.  Elder  Borum  says 
circuses  are  corrupt  an'  a  snare  o'  the  devil." 

Another  pause  and  more  tobacco. 

"The — the — deceased  is  on  a  kyar  back  o' 
this  hyer." 

Just  then  the  train  quivered,  slackened, 
stopped  where  a  lonely  country  road  crossed  the 
track;  not  a  human  being,  not  a  house  in  sight 
—only  a  platform  and  a  pile  of  walnut  lumber 
to  hide  the  long,  straight,  western  horizon  be- 
yond miles  and  miles  of  "rolling"  country.  In 
the  summer,  perhaps,  it  might  have  a  certain 
beauty ;  in  the  dusk  of  this  autumn  day  it  was 
desolation.  Toward  the  north  a  grove  of  girdled 
trees  waved  white,  ghostly  arms;  rain  had 
fallen  and  the  gray  earth,  the  heavy  sky  alike 
seemed  sodden.  The  long  gray  and  black 
curves  of  the  wagon-track  wound  in  and  out  like 
a  huge  serpent  crawling  over  the  earth. 

Out  upon  the  platform  was  helped  from  the 
baggage-car  a  young,  slender  woman  with  a 
39 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

baby  in  her  arms — a  woman  in  whose  eyes  was 
no  longer  hope,  were  no  more  tears. 

After  her  was  lifted  a  pine  coffin  roughly 
stained.  The  men  who  had  touched  her  gently 
were  less  tender  of  this  other  burden.  They 
dropped  it  with  a  jar  that  brought  a  little  cry  of 
pain  from  the  woman's  lips.  She  sank  down 
and  placed  her  hand  upon  the  box  as  if  to  shield 
from  harm  that  which  was  within.  The  child 
upon  her  lap  stared  solemnly  at  the  sky.  The 
engine  shrieked  fiercely  as- if  in  haste  to  go,  then 
rushed  on,  leaving  her  with  her  dead  and  her 
despair. 

Curious  passengers,  looking  back  from  a  bend 
in  the  road,  saw  her  crouching  motionless,  while 
a  last  red  gleam  from  the  setting  sun  broke 
through  the  clouds  and  touched  her  with  a 
weird  light. 

Around  a  curve  of  serpentine  highway  they 
saw,  too,  a  country  wagon,  the  driver  an  old 
man  with  bent  head,  the  horses  slow  and  spirit- 
less. Then  the  train  swept  on  out  of  sight. 

Not  a  pleasant  story,  do  you  say? 

No,  yet  "  'tis  true,  'tis  pity."  It  is  one  of 
those  dark  threads  so  common  in  the  weft  of  life 
that,  to  our  short-sighted  eyes,  mar  the  pattern 
40 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

that  else  might  be  so  fair.  We  even  doubt  the 
wisdom  of  the  Weaver  who  permits  such  de- 
fects, such  shadows  to  hide  the  clearer  outlines 
of  the  web.  As  if  we  knew  His  designs ! 

Do  you  wish  to  hear  the  sequel — to  follow  to 
an  end  the  twisted  thread  that  seems  to  have 
crossed  and  tangled  uselessly  in  the  loom  of 
fate? 

The  mother,  who  was  left  with  her  child  at 
the  lonely  station,  would  have  been  glad  to  die, 
no  doubt;  but,  for  the  sake  of  the  babe,  she 
must  live  on.  She  was  one  of  those  timid, 
clinging  creatures  such  as  all  women  are  ex- 
horted to  become.  Masculine  wisdom  says  the 
manifest  destiny  of  such  a  one  is  to  be  a  wife 
and  mother;  the  same  sagacity  neglects  to  go 
further  and  provide  for  her  helplessness  when 
destiny  fails  her.  But  these  two  lived,  and 
the  child  grew  and  thrived.  How  they  lived 
only  a  woman,  poor  and  alone,  who  toils  for 
her  children,  day  and  night,  can  tell.  This 
mother,  like  the  rest,  worked  early  and  late  at 
anything  her  hands  could  find  to  do.  She 
sewed,  she  washed,  she  nursed  the  sick,  she 
drudged  for  the  farmers'  wives  in  busy  seasons. 
Hours  when  she  should  have  slept  were  spent 
41 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

in  making  the  scanty  garments  of  baby  Nancy. 
Little  sympathy  was  manifested  for  her,  though 
doubtless  more  was  felt  than  found  expression ; 
the  American  farmer  is  not  demonstrative.  She 
did  not  ask  for  pity,  and  no  one  saw  her  weep. 
The  neighbors  said  "Mrs.  Murdock  bore  up 
right  well  under  her  man's  takin'  off;  lucky  'at 
she  was  one  o'  them  kind  'at  didn't  have  no 
deep  feelin's." 

Not  so  with  the  other  widow.  Mrs.  Jillson's 
display  of  grief  was  loud  and  violent.  Never 
was  woman  so  cruelly  bereaved,  she  said.  She 
knew  she  could  not  live.  If  there  were  no  Mur- 
docks  on  the  face  of  the  earth  she  should  die 
easier;  she  could  grind  them  to  powder  herself. 
"What  right  had  that  sly,  deceitful  hussy  to  be 
alive?  Not  a  bit  of  doubt  she  worked  Bill  up 
to  the  murder.  Jealous,  you  see,  because  Jake 
looked  at  her  once  before  he  knew  me." 

Before  long,  however,  her  excessive  sorrow 
moderated .  She  allowed  herself  to  think  favora- 
bly of  life  once  more.  Hysterics  and  "sinking 
spells"  grew  less  frequent.  In  less  than  a  year 
she  married  again — entirely  on  her  son's  ac- 
count, she  told  her  friends.  "A  lone  widow 
woman  couldn't  rightly  bring  up  a  boy." 
42 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

Mrs.  Murdock's  feelings  toward  the  family  of 
her  husband's  victim  were  curious.  For  them 
she  cared  nothing,  but  for  "Billy's  sake"  she 
cherished  a  strong  desire,  a  feverish  anxiety  to  do 
them  some  service.  Had  she  been  of  the  Roman 
Catholic  instead  of  the  Methodist  faith  she 
would  have  starved  herself,  if  need  be,  to  pay 
for  masses  for  the  repose  of  his  soul.  As  it  was, 
ministers  of  the  gospel — well-meaning  men — 
who  had  "labored  and  prayed"  with  Murdock 
before  his  execution,  told  her  that  he  had  re- 
fused the  means  of  grace.  While  admitting 
regret  for  the  crime  committed,  he  had  declared 
that  he  did  not  love  God ;  that  he  knew  nothing 
about  Him.  "When  yo'  talk,  Elder,  about  lov- 
in',"  he  would  say,  "I  could  sense  yore 
meanin'  mighty  well  ef  yo'  was  a  p'intin'  at  my 
woman  an'  the  little  chickabiddy.  Them's  all 
I've  got  ary  love  fer  in  this  hyer  world.  I  nev- 
er knowed  the  Lord  here,  an'  ef  it  depends  upon 
my  believin'  in  an'  lovin'  of  Him  now,  I  reckon 
I  shan't  know  Him  in  the  next  place."  With 
which  grim  statement  the  preachers  were  finally 
forced  to  silence. 

Being  taken  thus  in  the  blackness  of  his  sins, 
unconverted,  of  course  he  must  pay  the  penalty 
43 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

hereafter,  they  told  the  grieving  wife.  The  pen- 
alty, she  had  always  been  taught  and  had  un- 
doubtedly believed,  was  unspeakable  torture 
forever  and  evermore. 

Now,  in  her  extremity,  she  did  as  we  all  do 
when  a  creed  is  too  narrow  for  our  own  special 
needs — she  passed  it  by.  Turning  from  that 
monument  of  human  wisdom,  she  groped  for  a 
gate  where  hope  was  not  shut  out. 

"Billy  must  be  punished,  for  he  done  a  wick- 
ed thing,  but  he  was  not  bad,  he  was  not  bad. 
I  knowed  him  so  well.  He  was  always  kind, 
on'y  his  temper  quick — God  must  know  that 
too,  an'  surely,  surely  He  can't  be  hard  on  him 
always  'cause  he  lost  control  over  his  self  jest 
once.  Ef  I  could  on'y  do  something  for  Mrs. 
Jillson,  seems  as  if  'twould  count  for  Billy  some 
way.  Ef  she  would  let  me  work  for  her  I 
might  see  some  chance,  but  'pears  like  she 
won't  let  me  come  a-nigh." 

Having  no  one  else,  she  whispered  her 
thoughts,  her  wishes  to  the  little  Nancy.  In- 
stead of  tender  songs  and  baby  talk,  the  child 
was  lulled  to  sleep  with  stories  of  her  father, 
with  broken  sobs  and  prayers.  Who  knows  how 
early  she  became  aware  of  a  shadow  upon  her 
44 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

life?  How  soon  she  was  conscious  of  a  differ- 
ence between  herself  and  other  children  whom 
she  saw?  Her  presence  was  only  tolerated  by 
the  busy  farmers'  wives  because  the  mother 
could  not  leave  her ;  no  noisy  play,  no  mischiev- 
ous pranks  were  permitted  or  excused. 

The  children  of  the  poor  and  unfortunate  learn 
self-control  and  self-repression  at  an  early  age. 
When  Nancy  was  ten  years  old  she  was  done 
with  childhood.  She  could  make  herself  useful 
in  many  ways  to  the  women  who  wanted 
"help."  She  could  "  earn  her  own  living," 
and  talk  gravely  of  a  half  day's  or  a  full  day's 
time.  Her  mother,  perhaps  feeling  that  she 
could  do  no  more  for  her  daughter,  and  having 
no  other  interest  in  life,  let  this  world  slip  from 
her  feeble  hold,  and  went  out  over  the  border 
into  the  unknown. 

As  she  grew  up,  people  were  not  often  unkind 
to  Nancy.  On  the  contrary,  they  were  usually 
friendly  in  a  somewhat  condescending  way — 
when  she  did  her  work  well.  Had  she  been  a 
timid,  confiding  creature,  less  self-reliant  and 
reserved,  no  doubt  they  would  have  shown  her 
many  a  favor  that  would  have  made  her  heart 
glad.  As  it  was,  the  occasional  rude  taunts  of 
45 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

other  children  (what  is  more  barbarous  than  a 
cruel  child?)  and  now  and  then  rough  allusions 
to  her  father's  death  by  older  people,  raised  in 
her  nature  the  armor  of  silence  and  assumed  in- 
difference. Withdrawing  into  herself,  asking  no 
help,  she  was  allowed  to  go  her  way  alone  as 
best  she  could.  So  she  toiled  and  served  until 
she  came  to  eighteen  years  of  age.  That  time 
found  her  in  the  home  of  a  farmer,  twenty  miles 
from  her  birthplace. 

Had  you  asked  the  girl  if  she  were  happy, 
she  might  have  said  yes.  The  farmer  and 
his  wife,  who  had  no  children,  were  kind  to 
her.  There  was  plenty  of  hard  work,  to  be 
sure,  but  she  had  known  nothing  else.  Met- 
aphysical questions  had  not  troubled  her;  she 
had  never  asked  herself  if  life  were  worth  living, 
had  accepted  fate  without  rebellion.  She  had 
read  no  novels.  Mr.  Rhorer,  the  farmer,  some- 
times asked  her  to  read  to  him  from  The 
Weekly  Reaper — "  types  were  so  much  littler'n 
they  used  to  be,  readin'  kind  o'  made  his  head 
dizzy."  Nancy  certainly  might  absorb  facts, 
but  not  romance,  from  the  able  dissertations  she 
spelled  out  upon  the  treatment  of  lambs,  the 
weevil  in  wheat,  or  the  advertisements  of  patent 
46 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

churns.  Even  the  household  department  of  the 
paper  did  not  develop  artistic  tastes.  She  had 
no  colored  tissue  papers  wherewith  to  construct 
lamp-mats.  Why  should  she  make  elaborate 
frames  of  walnut  shells  or  crooked  sticks,  when 
she  had  no  pictures  to  put  in  them? 

An  ignorant,  uninteresting  serving-maid,  you 
see — very  different  from  the  aesthetic,  cultured 
heroine,  so  popular  nowadays.  Yet  this  one 
was  a  woman,  "with  the  heart  and  the  hopes  of 
a  woman."  Hardly  conscious,  perhaps,  that 
she  had  a  heart,  so  long  had  it  been  starved. 
As  in  her  childish  days,  she  still  held  aloof  from 
the  young  people,  though,  had  she  been  so  dis- 
posed, more  than  one  young  granger  would 
have  been  glad  to  become  her  "beau,"  for 
Nancy  was  fair  to  see.  They  were  not  so  fas- 
tidious as  to  birth  and  family  that  her  bright 
eyes  might  not  have  won  them. 

The  one  small  interest  and  excitement  in 
Nancy's  life  this  summer  was  watching  the  even- 
ing passenger  train.  It  stopped  for  a  few  mo- 
ments at  a  water  station  not  far  below  the  house, 
and  there  she  waited,  when  her  work  was  done, 
to  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  wonderful  outside 
world,  that  she  could  see  in  no  other  way.  Day 
47 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

after  day  found  her  there,  leaning  against  the 
old  gate  under  a  wide  beech  tree.  She  liked  to 
look  at  the  strange  faces,  and  took  deep  interest  in 
the  variety  of  hats  and  bonnets,  the  only  articles 
of  apparel  visible  from  her  point  of  view.  It 
puzzled  her  to  guess  where  so  many  people 
could  always  be  going.  If  she  should  ever  go 
traveling  she  would  not  look  so  tired  and  cross 
as  many  of  them  did ;  she  was  sure  she  would 
feel  sorry,  too,  for  girls  who  could  only  stand 
outside  and  see  the  cars  go  by.  Once  she  saw 
a  man  carefully  fasten  a  wrap  around  his  wife's 
throat,  and  heard  words  of  tender  anxiety  for 
her  comfort.  She  wondered  vaguely  if  any  one 
would  ever  care  for  her  in  that  way ;  it  was  not 
likely,  she  thought.  Somehow  she  did  not  wish 
to  stay  that  night  until  the  train  started.  She 
was  tired,  and  the  hissing  of  the  steam  made 
her  head  ache. 

One  day  she  became  conscious  that  the  young 
man  who  stood  smoking  a  cigar  on  the  back 
platform  was  the  same  one  who  was  there  yes- 
terday, perhaps  the  day  before  that.  With  eyes 
turned  away  she  became  aware,  too,  that  he  was 
looking  at  her  with  bold  admiration — the  subtle 


48 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

magnetism,  conveyed  no  scientists  quite  explain 
how,  made  her  cheeks  scarlet. 

What  was  there  in  a  trifle  like  that  to  make 
her  sleep  that  night  less  dreamless  than  before, 
in  spite  of  sound  health  and  weary  young  body  ? 

The  next  evening  she  went  to  the  usual  place. 
A  little  shyness  about  her  now,  but  why  should 
she  stay  away?  She  could  not  know  that  the 
young  man  would  be  there  again ;  but  he  was 
there,  and  this  time  lifted  his  hat  and  smiled  at 
her.  If  Nancy  lived  to  be  an  old  woman,  and 
never  saw  him  again,  he  would  stay  in  her  mem- 
ory for  that  one  act.  She  looked  at  it,  not  as 
an  impertinence,  but  as  a  mark  of  respect.  No 
man  had  ever  lifted  his  hat  to  her  before.  The 
rustic  beaux  had  not  attained  that  touch  of  pol- 
ish, and  would  have  sneered  had  they  seen  him, 
yet  have  envied  him  his  style  and  city  man- 
ners. 

The  refined,  accomplished  lady  of  whom  we 
like  to  read  would  not  have  been  pleased  with 
this  young  man.  She  would  have  seen  a  "per- 
son" of  twenty-one  or  twenty-two  years  of  age 
with  sandy  hair  and  a  jet  black  moustache.  A 
penetrating  odor  of  hair  oil  and  cinnamon  essence 
diffused  itself  about  him.  Wherever  jewelry  is 
4  49 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

admissible  in  masculine  outfit  he  had  given  it 
room — not  expensive  ornaments,  perhaps,  but 
large  and  showy.  A  hat  worn  upon  one  side  of 
his  head,  a  cigar  c!arried  in  the  opposite  corner 
of  his  mouth,  as  if  to  balance  the  organ  of  brains, 
were  peculiarities  of  his  style. 

The  thrill  which  filled  poor  Nancy  with  de- 
light would  have  been  a  shudder  of  disgust  to 
our  fastidious  maiden. 

Poor  Nancy?  No.  Something  had  entered 
into  her  days  which  made  labor  light  and  hours 
short.  Only  smiles  and  glances,  but  these  may 
mean  so  much.  Once  he  threw  a  kiss  at  her 
when  no  one  else  could  see ;  she  tried  not  to 
think  of  that  except  when  by  herself,  for  fear 
some  one  might  guess  her  thoughts. 

One  day  her  heart  was  set  to  fluttering,  and 
her  cheeks  to  burning  when  Mr.  Rohrer  brought 
the  young  man — yes,  there  could  be  no  mistake 
— the  same  young  man  home  to  dinner  with 
him.  His  name  was  Valentine  Gipe. 

"My  stepfather's  name,  did  you  say,  Mrs. 
Rhorer?  Yes,  I've  always  went  by  name  of 

Gipe  instead  of ."  (A  door  slammed  and 

Nancy  did  not  catch  that.)  "Live  up  at  New- 
burg,  with  maw  an'  paw.  Maw,  she's  that 
50 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

wropped  up  in  me  she  won't  hardly  let  me  out 
of  her  sight.  Am  in  business  with  Uncle  Joe, 
down  to  the  junction,  an'  havin'  a  free  pass,  it's 
just  as  cheap  to  board  at  home,  so  I  go  up  and 
down  on  the  road  every  day.  We're  dealin' 
in  stock  right  smart  at  present.  Heard  Mr. 
Rhorer  had  some  fat  cattle  to  sell,  an'  have 
took  a  run  up  to  see.  Betcher  boots  I  can't  be 
beat  in  jedgin'  the  pints  of  a  nanimal.  Uncle 
Joe,  he  knows  it,  too;  has  dead  loads  o'  confi- 
dence in  me." 

It  took  a  long  time  to  buy  those  cattle.  Mr. 
Gipe  came  and  went,  and  came  again.  When 
one  purchase  was  made  another  was  talked  of, 
and  the  summer  was  ended  before  the  stock  was 
sold. 

Long  before  that  time  Nancy's  heart  was 
gone.  All  the  love  that  other  girls  divide 
among  friends  and  relatives  was  concentrated 
and  lavished  upon  a  creature  who  did  not  know 
what  treasure  was  laid  at  his  feet.  He  had 
nothing  but  empty  words  to  give  in  return,  was 
having  a  little  fun,  a  little  flirtation,  he  said  to 
himself — but  upon  these  words  of  love  Nancy 
lived  and  was  happy.  The  world  took  on  a 
beauty  she  had  never  seen  before.  She  won- 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

dered,  as  she  sang  at  her  work,  that  she  had 
not  noticed  what  a  pretty  blue  was  the  sky,  how 
bright  were  the  sunsets;  nothing  in  heaven,  she 
thought,  could  be  fairer  than  the  moon-lit  sum- 
mer nights. 

The  light  of  her  passion  brightened  every- 
thing. Even  the  gray,  heavy  face  of  her  mis- 
tress was  touched  with  a  reflected  glow.  Hith- 
erto the  girl  had  felt  an  unconscious  pity  for  that 
worthy  matron's  plainness.  With  feminine  faith 
in  beauty,  she  had  wondered,  idly,  how  Mr. 
Rhorer,  himself  no  Adonis,  could  ever  have  mar- 
ried so  unprepossessing  a  creature.  Now  she 
could  see  that  the  good  woman  might  not  have 
been  so  plain,  after  all,  when  young. 

Mrs.  Rohrer  saw  nothing  of  the  play  that  went 
on  before  her  face.  Not  a  whisper  of  the  old, 
old  story  reached  her  dull  ears.  She  had  forgot- 
ten that  she  was  young  once ;  she  did  not  re- 
member that  the  blood  of  youth  is  riotous,  its 
pulses  swift  and  eager — not  sluggish,  as  her  own. 
The  girl  was  "only  Nancy."  Her  mistress  did 
not  see  that  she  was  fair,  did  not  dream  that  she 
had  a  want  that  was  not  supplied  by  herself.  It 
never  occurred  to  her  that  Valentine's  frequent 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

visits  were  for  any  one  but  her  husband,  because 
she  knew . 

A  part  of  what  Mrs.  Rhorer  knew  Nancy 
learned  one  day.  Summer  had  gone  then;  the 
first  bleak  weather  of  fall  had  come,  and  sitting 
by  the  kitchen  fire,  the  prudent  farmer's  wife 
began  planning  for  the  winter.  "I  wish  to  good- 
ness Dan'el  an'  Val  Gipe  would  finish  up  their 
trade  about  that  last  lot  o'  cattle.  We  don't 
want  to  winter  them  steers  over.  The  young 
feller's  keen  at  a  bargain,  but  powerful  cautious. 
It's  jest  as  well,  though,  I  s'pose,  fer  him  to  go 
slow  an'  take  care  of  his  money,  fer  he'll  have 
a  heap  of  it  some  day.  His  Uncle  Joe's  an  old 
bachelor,  an'  most  likely  '11  leave  him  all  he's 
got,  an'  then  his  pap  left  him  right  smart  of  a 
lump." 

"His  pap  dead?  Why,  child,  didn't  I  ever 
tell  ye  'at  Val's  pap  was  murdered  when  he 
was  a  baby?  Gipe's  on'y  his  stepfather — Jill- 
son's  rightly  his  name.  The  man  was  hung  who 
did  the  killin'.  'Member  me  and  Dan'el  was  at 

the  hangin' . Why !  Bless  my  soul !  What 

ails   the   critter,  a   whiskin'  out   thataway    an' 

slammin'   of    the    door?     Is    she — why    lawsy, 

come  to  think,  the  man  who  was  hung  was  her 

53 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

pap,  and  I  clean  forgot  it.  Mighty  touchy  she 
is,  to  be  sure,  but  I  wouldn't  a'  said  anything  if 
I'd  a'  thought.  Was  going  to  tell  her  about 
Val's  wedding  that's  to  come  off  next  month. 
Wonder  if  we'll  get  an  invite." 

Nancy's  mind  was  in  a  whirl.  One  thought 
only  was  clear.  Val  was  coming  that  night. 
He  would  have  "something  particular"  to  tell 
her,  he  had  said,  and  she,  in  her  innocence,  had 
blushed  and  thought  of  but  one  thing  he  could 
say.  Now  she  must  tell  him  this  awful  thing; 
of  course  he  did  not  know  it,  and  what  would  he 
say?  Quite  likely  he  could  not  marry  her  now, 
for  his  mother  would  never  consent.  But  how 
could  they  live  apart? 

With  the  simplicity  of  a  woman  who  loves 
and  knows  nothing  of  coquetry  or  flirtation, 
she  had  accepted  Val's  tender  words  with- 
out misgiving.  That  he  had  said  nothing  of 
marriage  had  not  troubled  her;  so  iar  the 
love  had  been  all-absorbing,  without  thought 
for  the  morrow.  She  had  not  doubted  that 
he  knew  her  history — "everybody  did" — and 
mixed  with  her  affection  was  a  strong  feel- 
ing of  gratitude  that  he  had  not  held  aloof.  She 
would  care  for  him  just  the  same,  she  knew,  if 
54 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

all  his  relatives  were  thieves  and  murderers,  but 
this  was  different.  Her  early  years  had  left  a 
vivid  impression  on  her  mind  of  the  relentless 
hatred  of  Mrs.  Jillson  to  her  mother  and  herself. 
It 'could  hardly  be  hoped  that  time  had  made 
much  change.  If  Val  should  ask  his  mother, 
perhaps — it  might  be — 

Like  on^  dazed  she  went  about  her  tasks. 
Would  the  day  never  end?  How  gray  and  cold 
it  was !  The  morning,  she  remembered,  had 
been  bright  and  clear.  After  supper  she  was 
sent  to  the  cross-roads  grocery,  a  mile  and  a  half 
away,  on  some  household  errand.  It  grew  dark 
early  now,  but  she  was  not  afraid.  What  was 
there  to  fear?  She  must  hurry,  though,  to  be 
back  when  Val  came.  It  was  nearer  to  go  up 
the  railroad  than  around  by  the  turnpike,  so 
she  started  home  that  way.  It  was  a  lonely 
walk  even  in  the  daylight,  through  dense  woods 
and  through  deep  cuts,  but  she  thought  only  of 
the  man  she  was  hastening  to  meet. 

Suddenly  in  the  darkest  part  of  the  road, 
where  it  made  a  short  curve,  she  came  upon  an 
obstruction.  Partly  with  eyes  accustomed  now 
to  the  darkness,  partly  by  touch,  she  found  logs 
and  stones  piled  high  across  the  track. 
55 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

How  they  came  there  she  did  not  stop  to  con- 
sider. Like  a  flash  came  the  thought,  "the 
evening  express  is  due ;  it  will  be  wrecked  and 
Val  is  on  it."  One  moment,  then  followed 
the  thought  and  the  deed  for  which  she  had 
lived  her  eighteen  years.  "If  I  can  reach  the 
water-station  I  can  warn  the  engineer ;  there  is 
no  other  way.  I  shall  save  Val  yet."  Softly 
she  crept  over  the  logs ;  with  swift  feet  she  sped 
up  the  gloomy  road,  and  thought  not  of  the 
darkness.  Like  an  illumination  around  her  was 
the  feeling ' '  My  Val  shall  not  die ,  I  will  save  him . " 
Swifter  yet  she  ran — it  was  a  mile  or  more .  Once 
she  fell ;  with  her  ear  upon  the  ground  she  heard 
the  vibrations  of  the  coming  train.  Could  she  not 
go  faster?  On  and  on,  past  the  woods,  through 
the  cornfields  now — the  stalks  still  standing 
breast-high  after  the  western  fashion.  How  the 
dry  leaves  rustled!  Her  footsteps  seemed  to 
echo.  Plainly  now  she  heard  the  throbbing  of 
the  engine ;  its  fiery  eye  shone  far  up  the  road 
— there  was  yet  time,  she  vias  nearly  there. 
Louder  sounded  the  thunder  of  the  train,  but 
above  that  and  the  beating  of  her  heart  she  heard 
again  the  cUioing  steps.  Some  one  followed 
her,  called  to  her  to  halt,  threatened  her,  but 
56 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

still  she  ran  faster,  faster,  A  pistol  shot,  another, 
but  she  went  on,  staggering  now.  The  train  came 
thundering  on,  seeming  in  the  gloom,  like  a  de- 
stroying monster,  stopped  impatiently  at  the 
station,  and  Nancy  dragged  herself  to  the  engi- 
neer's cab.  Her  work  was  done.  The  creatures 
who,  for  malice  or  plunder,  had  planned  the 
wreck  were  defeated,  but  had  wreaked  vengeance 
on  her. 

On  board  that  train  were  lives  worth  more 
than  the  one  for  which  she  had  given  her  own — 
men  for  whom  other  women  would  have  died, 
no  doubt;  wives  and  children  for  whom  hearts 
would  have  broken  had  they  come  to  their  homes 
no  more.  She  had  saved  these  passengers  from 
destruction,  but  her  thoughts  were  only  for  one. 
' '  Val !  my  Val ! ' '  was  her  cry — maidenly  shy- 
ness gone  now  in  the  solemn  presence  of  death. 
To  her  it  was  as  though  they  two  were  alone  in 
all  the  world.  When  they  carried  her  to  the 
house  the  young  man  followed  reluctantly. 

"I  did  it  for  you,  Val.  I  know'd  you'd  be 
on  the  train.  Seemed  as  if  the  Lord  must  let 
me  get  there  in  time.  I  kep'  askin'  Him  over 
an'  over,  an'  He  did.  I  reckon  it's  all  up  with 
me,  though.  This  mornin'  I'd  a  been  sorry, 
57 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

but  it's  just  as  well.  You  couldn't  a  married  me, 
Val,  a-knowin'  who  I  be,  an'  it  don't  'pear  as  if 
I  could  a-lived  away  from  you.  You're  all  I've 
got.  Mother' 11  be  glad  'at  I  did  this.  Mebbe 
it  '11  count  for  father,  as  she  always  was  sayin'. 
Mebbe  yer  ma  '11  forgive  us  all  now." 

Valentine  Jillson  was  selfish.  Some  woman 
had  ministered  to  his  comfort,  his  vanity,  all  his 
life.  This  one,  he  thought,  had  only  done  what 
was  proper,  everything  considered.  He  was 
base,  but  with  those  dying  eyes  upon  his  face 
he  did  not  remind  Nancy  that  he  had  never 
spoken  of  marrying  her.  He  could  not  tell  the 
girl  what  he  had  come  that  night  to  say — that 
their  acquaintance  must  come  to  an  end,  be- 
cause he  was  to  marry  Squire  Jones's  daughter, 
Juniata,  next  month. 

And  she,  even  with  the  prescience  of  death, 
could  not  read  his  treachery.  With  his  hand 
clasped  tightly  in  her  own  she  did  not  know  him 
false. 

Swiftly  her  life  ebbed  away.  She  grew 
weaker,  weaker.  "I  am — so — tired.  Kiss  me 
— once  more — Val.  Say  you — love  me.  My 
Val.  I— love— love— .  It  is— dark." 

With  his  words,  his  kiss  (heaven  would  par- 
58 


AT  A  WAY-STATION 

don  this  last  deceit),  Nancy's  eyes  closed  to 
open  no  more  on  this  earth.  On  the  other  side, 
it  may  be,  she  took  up  the  thread  of  existence 
that  had  lain  in  the  shadow  here  and  carried  it 
on  into  the  eternal  brightness — the  glory  that  is 
neither  of  sun  nor  of  moon. 


59 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

MRS.  HANNAH  BROOKS,  "Aunt  Han- 
nah,"  as  she  was  commonly  known,  had 
been  a  consistent  member  of  the  Methodist 
Episcopal  Church  from  the  time  she  was  eleven 
years  old,  and  she  was  now  sixty-two.  For 
over  fifty  years  she  had  walked  in  the  strait 
and  narrow  path  and  had  never  failed  to  observe 
the  ordinances  of  the  church,  or  to  rebuke  sin 
wherever  she  detected  it.  Many  people,  even 
church  members,  felt  that  Mrs.  Brooks's  stand- 
ard of  behavior  was  a  little  too  exacting  and  se- 
vere for  nineteenth  century  use.  She  was  quite 
as  austere  in  her  views  as  if  she  had  been  a 
direct  descendant  of  a  Puritan  father  and  had 
lived  all  her  life  on  stony  New  England  soil  in- 
stead of  having  been  born  in  Indiana  of  parents 
who  had  come  from  the  "old  country."  The 
Puritan  influence  affects  all  American  character 
60 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

more  or  less,  and  it  is  a  mistake  to  suppose  that 
the  stern  and  rigid  code  of  conduct  commonly 
ascribed  to  that  influence  is  confined  to  one  lo- 
cality or  is  accepted  only  by  Americans  whose 
family  trees  were  planted  in  this  soil  before  the 
Revolution. 

Mrs.  Brooks  had  early  been  taught  to  be- 
lieve that  dancing  was  a  device  of  the  ene- 
my of  mankind  to  ensnare  the  souls  of  youth. 
Card  playing  was  an  abomination  that  none 
could  tamper  with  without  danger  of  missing 
heaven ;  while  as  for  the  theater,  that  was  sim- 
ply an  open  door  to  the  place  of  everlasting  tor- 
ment. All  through  her  life  she  had  frequently 
found  it  necessary  to  warn  and  reprove  young 
people  of  her  acquaintance  who  showed  an  incli- 
nation to  indulge  in  the  two  first-named  frivoli- 
ties, but  the  theater  evil  was  one  she  had  en- 
countered only  in  recent  years.  Aunt  Hannah 
had  never  lived  in  the  city,  her  home  having 
been  first  upon  a  farm,  and,  later,  and  for  many 
years  now,  in  the  little  town  of  Cicero,  which  has 
no  opera  house  and  whose  dramas  are  not 
played  upon  the  stage.  With  increasing  fre- 
quency the  rumor  came  to  her  that  some  young 
man  or  maiden  had  visited  the  theater  in  Indian- 
61 


MRS.  BROOKS  S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

apolis  to  see  a  performance  by  graceless  play- 
actors— a  "show"  they  called  it — and  if  these 
erring  young  persons  were  in  the  church  she  in- 
variably took  pains  to  make  a  personal  remon- 
strance and  to  urge  them  to  turn  again  to  the 
strait  and  narrow  path. 

Among  themselves  these  young  people,  feel- 
ing a  little  guilty  and  conscience-stricken  over 
their  conduct,  nevertheless,  said  sometimes  that 
Aunt  Hannah  was  hard  and  unsympathetic,  and 
that  she  would  not  talk  so  if  she  were  not  so 
old-fashioned  and  understood  how  harmless 
theaters  really  were.  But  Mrs.  Brooks  was  not 
unsympathetic.  She  believed  firmly  that  all 
these  things  were  wicked.  She  had  been  taught 
so,  and  had  seen  no  reason  to  change  her  opin- 
ion. Believing  thus,  and  being  very  direct,  out- 
spoken and  fearless  in  her  methods,  she  hesitated 
not  to  free  her  mind  when  occasion  seemed  to 
require. 

She  was  an  uncommcnly  intelligent  and  well- 
informed  woman  for  one  of  her  limited  oppor- 
tunities, being  a  close  reader  of  such  literature 
as  came  in  her  way — the  range  extending  from 
the  Bible  and  the  life  of  John  Wesley  to  Roe's 
novels  and  the  weekly  newspaper.  But  read- 
62 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

ing  must  be  supplemented  by  experience  and 
observation  before  it  gives  breadth  of  view  and 
liberality  of  judgment.  She  realized  vaguely 
that  a  change  of  sentiment  had  taken  place  in 
recent  years  concerning  card  playing,  dancing 
and  kindred  amusements,  but  she  felt  that  this 
was  merely  a  symptom  of  the  degeneracy  of  the 
times  and  was  strongly  to  be  combated.  Even 
the  ministry  was  being  tainted  with  moral  weak- 
ness, for  had  not  Presiding  Elder  Daniels — and 
he  one  of  the  most  influential  men  in  the  con- 
ference, too ! — said  to  her  one  day  when  she 
was  discoursing  on  this  subject — had  he  not 
used  these  almost  incendiary  words : 

'  'People  must  have  amusements,  SisterBrooks, 
and  perhaps  it  is  better  to  let  them  enjoy  their 
pleasures  under  the  sanction  of  the  church.  In 
old  times  they  danced  before  the  Lord,  you 
know." 

This  was  heresy  that  horrified  the  good  lady, 
but  she  resolved,  let  come  what  might,  that  she 
would  abate  not  a  jot  or  tittle  of  her  efforts 
against  sin.  Whatever  others  might  do  she 
would  obey  the  spirit  of  the  rules  and  regulations 
laid  down  in  the  Methodist  Book  of  Discipline, 
and  one  of  these  rules  charged  that  no  entertain- 
63 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

raent  be  entered  into  on  which  the  blessing  of 
the  Lord  could  not  be  asked,  or  words  to  that 
effect.  And  to  the  best  of  her  ability  she  did. 
She  neglected  none  of  the  accepted  means  of 
grace.  She  was  a  regular  attendant  at  prayer- 
meeting,  where  her  voice  was  frequently  raised 
in  exhortation  and  prayer,  as  is  the  custom  with 
devout  and  elderly  sisters  in  that  fold.  She  was 
faithful  at  class-meeting,  and  there  confessed  her 
shortcomings  with  such  reservations  as  seemed 
expedient  in  view  of  the  fact  that  the  listening 
ears  were  those  of  a  dozen  or  so  neighbors  in- 
stead of  a  single  father  confessor  vowed  to 
silence.  For  instance,  she  saw  no  necessity  for 
relating  in  detail  that  she  lost  her  temper  and 
thought  a  dreadful  thought,  which  if  put  in 
print  would  have  contained  a  dash,  when  her 
clothesline  broke  on  Monday  and  let  her  week's 
"wash"  into  the  mud.  All  she  considered 
essential  was  to  acknowledge,  in  a  general  way, 
that  she  was  a  weak  and  sinful  creature,  and  to 
ask  the  prayers  of  her  brethren  and  sisters  that 
she  might  overcome  the  old  Adam  and  lay  hold 
more  firmly  on  divine  grace.  If  any  of  her 
friends  and  neighbors  had  dared  to  arise  in  the 
same  meeting  and  to  speak  of  her  as  weak  and 
64 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

sinful  it  would  have  been  a  very  different  affair. 
But  none  of  them  did.  They  only  sighed  heav- 
ily, looked  dismal  and  said  "Amen!"  or  "Lord 
bless!"  after  the  relation  of  each  "experience." 

Of  late,  as  it  happened,  Mrs.  Brooks's  atten- 
tion had  been  especially  attracted  to  matters  of 
a  theatrical  drift.  A  son  living  in  Chicago  occa- 
sionally sent  her  a  Sunday  paper,  and  those  pa- 
pers, as  everybody  knows,  devote  a  considerable 
share  of  their  space  to  the  drama  in  its  various 
phases.  She  had  serious  doubts  as  to  the  pro- 
priety of  reading  these  newspapers  because  they 
were  labeled  ' '  Sunday, ' '  but,  reflecting  that  it 
was  along  in  the  middle  of  the  week  before  they 
reached  her,  she  decided,  through  some  obscure 
train  of  logic,  that  there  was  no  moral  delin- 
quency in  finding  out  just  what  had  been  going 
on  in  the  world  three  or  four  days  before. 

It  was  something  of  a  task  to  read  a  twenty, 
thirty  or  forty-page  Chicago  paper  through  from 
beginning  to  end  with  the  religious  care  that  she 
did  her  county  weekly,  but  in  the  two  or  three 
weeks  that  each  copy  lay  around  before  another 
arrived  she  accomplished  the  task.  Conse- 
quently she  read  a  good  deal  about  the  thea- 
ters, much  of  it  not  to  edification,  because  she 
5  65 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

had  never  seen  a  play  nor  read  one,  and  failed 
to  comprehend  many  allusions.  There  was 
something  about  these  columns  that  attracted 
her,  however,  and  she  continued  to  peruse  them 
with  interest.  One  day  she  found  something 
within  her  comprehension.  In  response  to  pop- 
ular demand,  Joseph  Jefferson  had  reproduced 
his  ' '  Rip  Van  Winkle  ' '  that  season  after  its 
semi-retirement  for  some  years,  and  Chicago 
papers  had  a  great  deal  to  say  about  it  and 
about  him — all  in  the  way  of  praise.  Now, 
Mrs.  Brooks  knew  all  about  "  Rip  Van  Winkle  " 
and  all  about  Jefferson.  The  daughter  of  her 
next-door  neighbor  on  the  east  was  a  school- 
teacher in  the  city — said  city  meaning  Indian- 
apolis, of  course — and  subscribed  for  the  Century 
Magazine,  sending  each  copy  home  after  she  had 
read  it.  When  the  family  was  through  with  it, 
it  was  passed  around  the  neighborhood,  begin- 
ning with  Mrs.  Brooks.  Among  other  things 
she  found  in  it  was  Jefferson's  autobiography. 
She  began  reading  this  under  the  vague  impres- 
sion that  Joseph  Jefferson  was  a  statesman  of  the 
Thomas  Jefferson  type;  or,  if  not,  perhaps 
a  great  writer,  though  she  did  not  remember  to 
have  heard  of  him.  At  any  rate,  he  must  be  a 
66 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

distinguished  man,  for  only  that  kind  wrote  bi- 
ographies of  themselves  and  got  them  printed. 
When  she  learned  that  he  was  only  an  actor  she 
felt  something  of  a  shock,  but  by  that  time 
she  was  interested  in  his  career  and  pleased  with 
the  good  principles  he  seemed  to  possess  and 
the  excellent  moral  sentiments  he  enunciated 
incidentally.  It  did  seem  strange,  though,  that 
such  a  man  should  engage  in  so  reprehensible  a 
calling. 

When  she  came  to  the  account  of  his  appear- 
ance as  Rip  Van  Winkle  she  was  again  surprised 
and  pleased,  for  had  she  not  read  Irving' s  story 
of  that  good-for-nothing  but  winsome  idler? 
Her  next-door  neighbor  on  the  west  had  received 
a  copy  of  the  "Sketch  Book"  as  a  prize  for  sub- 
scribing for  the  Weekly  Bugle,  and,  like  most 
other  books  in  the  village,  it  had  eventually  grav- 
itated into  her  hands. 

Altogether,  she  was  fairly  well  posted  in  re- 
gard to  this  particular  bit  of  drama,  and  was 
startled  one  day  by  the  discovery  that  she  was 
actually  wishing  to  see  the  play  and  to  see  Jef- 
ferson. The  idea  was  really  shocking.  She,  a 
member  of  the  Methodist  Episcopal  Church,  in 
good  standing,  to  think  of  going  to  the  theater 
67 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

of  all  places  in  the  world.  Satan  himself  must 
have  put  the  suggestion  into  her  mind.  Did 
not  the  church  Discipline  enjoin  members  to  en- 
gage in  no  pastimes  which  could  not  be  per- 
formed to  the  glory  of  God?  Certainly  no  one 
could  praise  God  at  the  theater;  and  yet — and 
yet,  there  was  nothing  especially  objectionable 
about  "Rip  Van  Winkle,"  while  Mr.  Jefferson 
seemed  a  good  sort  of  man  according  to  his  light. 
However,  perhaps  the  theatrical  columns  of  the 
Sunday  papers  were  just  as  well  left  alone,  and 
she  would  have  no  more  of  them. 

The  truth  was  that  Mrs.  Brooks  had,  without 
suspecting  it,  a  liking  for  the  dramatic  and  for 
the  spectacular.  She  patronized  all  the  enter- 
tainments given  under  church  auspices,  and  was 
pleased  with  them  in  proportion  as  they  were 
picturesque  or  exciting.  She  liked  elocutionary 
performances,  and  was  partial  to  the  more  dra- 
matic recitations.  She  never  missed  charades  or 
tableaux  arranged  by  the  young  people,  and 
made  no  criticisms,  though  the  representations 
were  scenes  from  profane  history  or  heathen  gods 
and  goddesses  arranged  in  white  cotton  drapery, 
such  as  gods  never  wore  before.  She  liked 
lively  music— dance  music,  if  she  only  knew  it 
68 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

— revival  meetings  of  the  stirring,  fervid  sort, 
and  temperance  meetings  where  the  emotions  were 
played  upon  by  skillful  speakers. 

A  week  or  so  after  this  twinge  of  worldly 
temptation  Mrs.  Brooks  went  to  spend  a  few 
days  with  her  married  daughter  in  Indianapolis 
to  help  that  young  matron  with  her  winter  sew- 
ing. The  very  evening  of  her  arrival  her  son- 
in-law  remarked  to  his  wife  at  the  supper  table : 

"Maria,  Joe  Jefferson  is  to  play  'Rip  Van 
Winkle'  to-morrow  night.  You  know  we  have 
been  waiting  to  see  him  again,  and  I  have 
bought  tickets." 

Now,  Mrs.  Brooks  knew  that  since  her  mar- 
riage her  daughter  had  departed  from  the  strict 
ways  of  her  youth,  and  now  and  then  indulged 
in  that  perilous  frivolity,  progressive  euchre,  and 
attended  the  theater.  She  had  made  vigorous 
remonstrance,  as  in  duty  bound,  but,  finding 
her  protests  of  no  use,  had  abandoned  the  fight, 
at  least  till  an  opportune  season.  Out  of  respect 
to  her  mother's  feelings,  Maria  tacitly  ignored 
the  subject,  and  now  endeavored  to  signal  her 
husband  to  silence,  but  he  went  placidly  on  and 
invited  his  mother-in-law  to  go  with  them,  say- 
ing he  would  secure  another  seat.  Much  to  his 
69 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 


and  more  to  that  of  his  wife,  Mrs. 
Brooks  did  not  manifest  that  animosity  toward 
theaters  which  a  mention  of  them  in  her  pres- 
ence had  been  wont  to  arouse,  and  which  the 
artful  son-in-law  had  hoped  to  excite  on  this 
occasion  for  his  own  delectation.  On  the  con- 
trary, she  took  up  the  subject  with  a  show  of 
interest  more  eager  than  she  knew,  and  dis- 
played so  much  familiarity  with  Jefferson  and 
his  play  that  the  two  younger  people  looked  at 
each  other  in  wonder.  But  when  urged  to  say 
whether  or  not  she  would  go  she  suddenly  stif- 
fened and  responded  coldly: 

"George  Henry,  you  know  my  principles  in 
regard  to  such  places.  To-morrow  night  I  shall 
go  to  hear  Francis  Murphy.,  I  know  the  way 
to  the  hall,  and  am  not  afraid  to  go  and  come 
alone." 

Next  evening  came,  but  Maria  had  a  head- 
ache and  could  not  go.  George  proposed  to 
escort  his  mother-in-law  to  the  Murphy  meeting 
and  leave  her  there  while  he  went  to  the  theater 
for  an  act  or  two  —  '  '  for  it  was  really  a  pity  to 
miss  it  when  we  had  the  tickets  and  the  time. 
You  know,  Mother  Brooks,"  he  said  solemnly, 
winking  at  his  wife  over  his  mother-in-law's 
70 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

head,  "  you  know  going  to  see  Jefferson  is  not 
like  going  to  see  other  actors.  He  plays  such 
nice,  clean,  moral  plays  and  is  such  a  high-toned, 
moral  man — church  member,  and  all  that — that 
it  is  almost  as  good  as  going  to  a  religious  meet- 
ing to  hear  him." 

"Church  member,  is  he?"  was  Mrs.  Brooks's 
only  response,  but  the  acute  George  Henry  de- 
tected an  expression  in  her  eye  that  led  him  to 
whisper  to  his  wife,  as  he  kissed  her  good-night: 
"If  we  are  not  home  till  late  you  may  know  that 
I  have  inveigled  your  esteemed  parent  into  a 
wild  orgy  at  the  theater." 

It  was  a  fair  night,  and  they  walked  down. 
The  Grand  Opera  House  was  on  the  way  to 
Tomlinson  Hall,  and  as  they  drew  near  its  por- 
tals the  orchestra  could  be  heard  discoursing 
some  very  lively  music  preliminary  to  the  raising 
of  the  curtain.  When  they  reached  the  entrance 
George  Henry  turned  toward  it. 

"  Come,  Mother  Brooks,  let's  hear  Jefferson. 
You  may  never  have  another  chance.  He  beats 
Francis  Murphy  all  hollow.  It's  all  right. 
You'll  find  lots  of  good  people  there  who  would- 
n't go  to  any  other  play  nor  to  see  any  other 
actor  for  the  world." 

71 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

There  was  a  faint  remonstrance — where  were 
Mrs.  Brooks 's  accustomed  vim  and  decision? 
There  was  a  feeble  holding  back  of  her  steps, 
but  her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  distant  drop  cur- 
tain, visible  through  the  open  doors — and  in  she 
went. 

It  was  an  event  in  her  life.  The  stage  with 
its  setting,  was  as  novel  to  her  as  to  a  child. 
There  it  all  was,  just  as  she  had  read  about  it, 
but  so  much  more  real — the  village  green,  the 
old  Dutch  burghers,  the  vixenish  Gretchen,  lit- 
tle Katrina  and  the  happy-go-lucky,  lazy,  but 
lovable  Rip.  As  played,  the  story  had  some 
points  she  did  not  recall  in  the  book,  but  what 
mattered !  There  was  Rip  doing  the  best  he 
could.  Suppose  he  was  lazy  and  shiftless  and 
did  get  tipsy  sometimes,  such  a  wife  was  enough 
to  drive  a  man  to  drink.  Mrs.  Brooks  forgot 
time  and  place  in  following  his  fortunes.  She 
leaned  forward,  filled  with  visible  wrath  when 
Gretchen  scolded,  and  when,  at  last,  the  wife 
drove  him  from  home  with  his  dog,  and  Rip 
turned  and  bade  her  and  his  child  a  touching  fare- 
well, tears  ran  down  her  cheeks  unheeded. 

Then,  how  she  thrilled  at  the  thunder  of  the 
mysterious  ninepins  rolled  in  the  hollows  of  the 
72 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

Catskills  by  Hendrick  Hudson's  men ;  how  weird 
those  old  Dutchmen  were ;  how  wonderful  was 
the  red  fire  that  flashed  over  them,  making  them 
look  like  creatures  from  the  infernal  regions! 
How  her  heart  and  her  throat  ached  for  the  poor, 
pitiful  old  man  when  he  woke  from  his  twenty 
years'  sleep  and  wandered  back  to  his  home  to 
find  the  world  changed !  What  a  wonderful 
thing  it  was  altogether  that  one  man — for  the 
others  in  the  play  did  not  matter  much — that 
one  man  could  make  a  mere  story,  an  impossi- 
ble legend,  seem  so  true,  such  a  thing  of  actual 
life!  And  what  a  delightful  creature  he  was, 
that  Rip,  that  Jefferson,  with  his  airy  wave  of 
the  hand  and  his  confidential,  infectious  smile. 

She  was  glad  she  had  seen  him;  glad,  glad. 

And  this  statement  she  adhered  to.  George 
Henry  was  discreet  enough  to  say  very  little 
about  this  escapade  of  his  mother-in-law,  but 
she  knew  that  she  would  meet  no  such  consid- 
eration at  home,  for  in  coming  out  of  the  opera 
house  she  had  jostled  against  young  Hiram 
Jones,  of  Cicero,  whom  she  had  often  rebuked 
for  his  theater-going,  and  whose  father  was  her 
class  leader.  But  she  was  not  cast  down.  She 
had  no  intention  of  concealing  her  act.  Next 
73 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

Sunday  she  went  to  church  as  usual,  serene  in 
the  consciousness  of  looking  well  in  a  brand 
new,  though  properly  plain,  bonnet  bought  in 
the  city.  As  usual,  she  appeared  in  class  meet- 
ing when  the  hour  came.  Her  keen  eye  de- 
tected a  movement  of  interest  and  curiosity  on 
the  part  of  others  present,  which  convinced  her 
that  young  Hiram  had  told  his  story. 

Brother  Minshall,  being  called  on  after  the 
opening  prayer  and  hymn,  arose  and  repeated 
with  nasal  emphasis  the  formula  of  forty  years, 
beginning:  "Brethren  and  sisters,  I  feel  to  re- 
joice that  I  am  spared  to  be  with  you  another 
Sunday,  that  I  may  tell  you  of  the  wondrous 
work  of  grace  in  my  heart." 

Sister  Angeline  Martin  told  her  hearers  in 
droning  phrase  that  she  was  a  weak  and  sinful 
worm  of  the  dust,  but  that  she  had  fixed  her 
trust  in  the  Lord  and  knew  that  He  would  lift 
her  up. 

Uncle  Ezra  Hinshaw  was  glad  to  add  his 
testimony  and  to  say  that  he  was  on  the  Lord's 
side,  and  had  been  for  nigh  on  to  forty  year. 
An  hour  spent  here,  he  said,  was  worth  all  the 
fleeting  joys  the  world  could  give. 


74 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

And  so  it  went  on  until  Mrs.  Brooks  arose. 
She  wasted  no  time  in  preliminaries. 

"I  take  it  for  granted,  brethren  and  sisters," 
she  said,  "that  you  know  I  attended  the  theater 
when  I  was  in  the  city  last  week,  and  that  you 
want  to  know  how  I  reconcile  it  with  my  pro- 
fessions. I  did  go;  I  got  no  harm,  but  very 
much  enjoyment,  and,  I  think,  some  good.  I 
learned  that  whatever  some  theater  plays  may 
be,  some  others  are  as  good  as  the  best  sermons. 
I  have  found  out  that  it  doesn't  do  to  abuse  all 
theaters  because  some  are  bad.  I  don't  feel 
that  I  did  anything  wrong.  I  don't  advise  any- 
body else  to  go,  and  I  don't  advise  them  not. 
It  is  a  matter  with  their  own  conscience.  Mine 
is  clear.  I  expect  never  to  go  again,  but  I  am 
glad  I  went,  and  glad  I  learned  what  I  learned, 
and  glad  I  saw  Joe  Jefferson.  Praise  the  Lord  ! ' ' 

"Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow," 
said  the  leader  with  solemn  intonation,  but  with 
a  faint  twinkle  in  his  eye.  He  was  a  discreet 
man,  and  had  been  to  the  theater  in  his  time, 
too.  So  the  class  sang  the  doxology  and  was 
dismissed. 

Going  out,  Aunt  Hannah  met  young  Hiram 


75 


MRS.  BROOKS'S  CHANGE  OF  HEART 

Jones,  looking  a  little  sheepish,  and  shook  hands 
with  him. 

"Wasn't  it  beautiful?"  said  she.  "Ain't you 
glad  you  went,  and  ain't  Joseph  Jefferson  great? 
May  he  live  long  and  prosper." 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

THE  woman  who  was  a  critical  reader  of  mag- 
azines met  her  friend,  the  writer  of  stories, 
in  the  little  railroad  station  at  Mullins,  in  south- 
ern Indiana.  The  writer  had  just  arrived  from 
Indianapolis ;  the  other  was  waiting  the  north- 
bound train. 

"What  have  you  come  to  this  dull,  lonely, 
forlorn  place  for?  Not  for  literary  material, 
surely?  My  grandmother  lives  here,  and  I 
have  known  the  town  all  my  life.  Nothing  ro- 
mantic ever  happened  to  anyone  here ;  there  are 
no  incidents,  no  tragedies,  no  characters  worth 
studying;  the  people  simply  vegetate." 

"I  never  hunt  for  'material'  anywhere,"  re- 
plied the  woman  who  wrote.  "It  comes  to  me 
—crowds  itself  on  me.  I  have  been  sent  for  by 
an  invalid  cousin,  and  expect  not  to  think  of  lit- 
erary matters ;  but  if  I  were  searching  for  themes 
I  have  no  doubt  I  could  find  them,  even  here." 
77 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

"I  am  sure  you  could  not.  What,  for  in- 
stance (here  the  speaker's  voice  was  lowered), 
what  could  you  make  out  of  that  spiritless, 
meek,  faded-out  creature  there?  She  is  a  resi- 
dent here;  I  have  seen  her  often,  but  she  is  so 
colorless  I  never  had  the  curiosity  to  ask  even 
her  name.  I  am  sure  she  never  had  a  vivid 
emotion,  never  really  lived  in  all  her  life." 

"Perhaps  not,"  laughed  the  writer,  "but  I 
believe  she  has  a  story.  I  will  find  it  out  and 
tell  it  to  you." 

This  is  the  story  she  told  a  month  later : 
Martin  Davis  did  not  look  much  like  a  man 
with  aesthetic  sentiment  in  his  soul  as  he  left  his 
plow  in  the  furrow  that  afternoon  in  early  April 
and  drove  his  tired  horses  up  the  lane.  His  face 
was  weatherbeaten,  his  hands  rough  and  hard, 
his  clothing  cheap  and  coarse,  his  high  boots, 
into  which  his  jeans  trousers  were  tucked,  caked 
with  mud.  But  he  was  young  and  vigorous; 
his  eyes  were  bright  and  eager,  and  he  felt  him- 
self a  man  to  be  envied,  for  had  he  not  a  wife 
waiting  for  him  at  the  house — a  bride  of  but  a 
few  weeks  ?  In  the  band  of  his  rusty  felt  hat  he 
had  slipped  a  bunch  of  yellow  violets. 
78 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

"  I  knew  ye  liked  posies,  Lizzie,"  he  said  as 
he  handed  them  to  her  at  the  kitchen  door, 
"and  these  are  the  first  I've  seen  this  season, 
'tbout  it's  the  little  white  windflowers  that  wilt 
while  ye're  pickin'  them.  These  yellow  things 
are  way  ahead  of  time.  I've  never  found  them 
before  earlier  than  May;  they're  not  common 
hereabouts,  anyhow,  but  I  know  of  a  spot  down 
in  the  holler  where  they  always  flourish." 

When  she  put  them  in  a  teacup  and  set  them 
on  the  supper  table  he  wondered  vaguely  why 
he  had  never  known  before  that  flowers  made  a 
room  look  so  cheerful — almost  as  if  the  sun  were 
shining,  though  that  luminary  had  sunk  be- 
hind the  western  hill.  He  did  not  know  that 
the  brightness  was  not  of  the  flowers,  but  was 
the  light  of  love  reflected  from  his  heart  and 
hers. 

It  was  but  a  brief  time  that  his  happiness  lasted. 
That  was  the  spring  of  '61,  and  the  country  was 
even  then  calling  upon  her  loyal  sons.  Martin 
Davis  turned  his  horses  into  the  pasture,  left  his 
crops  for  others  to  harvest  and  went  unhesitat- 
ingly to  answer  the  call.  Oh,  the  heroism  of 
the  myriads  who  thus  went  out  from  home,  and 
peace,  and  love,  to  the  battlefield  in  those 
79 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

dreadful  years!  What  if  they  did  not  know 
that  the  ninety  days  would  lengthen  until  no 
man  could  name  the  end,  and  that  the  slain 
would  be  like  the  leaves  of  the  forest  for  num- 
bers? What  if  they  did  go  simply  from  a 
matter-of-fact  sense  of  duty,  and  with  little  feel- 
ing of  risk  and  danger,  or  because  the  riotous 
spirit  of  youth  yearned  for  adventure?  The 
fact  remains — the  tremendous,  immutable  fact — 
that  they  went  by  hundreds,  by  thousands,  by 
tens  and  hundreds  of  thousands,  and  that  they 
offered  their  lives.  Greater  love  than  this  hath 
no  man,  and  yet  we,  in  this  frivolous  later  day, 
dare  sometimes  speak  lightly  of  those  men  and 
their  sacrifices. 

It  was  a  monotonous  and  a  hard  life  for  the 
most  part,  that  of  a  private  soldier  in  the  war 
for  the  Union.  Its  story  has  been  told  in  frag- 
ments at  home  firesides  and  by  campfires,  but 
never  in  literature  as  a  whole  for  the  world  to 
know.  Perhaps  it  never  will  be.  The  veterans 
tell  of  battles  and  of  victories  and  of  stirring 
events,  but  they  do  not,  as  a  class,  care  to  dwell 
upon  their  hardships  and  sufferings.  The  ex- 
perience cut  deep,  and  the  scars  are  even  yet 
too  sensitive  to  touch  upon. 
80 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

Martin  Davis 's  life  was  not  different  from  the 
rest.  There  was  the  drill  and  the  camp  life,  the 
picket  duty,  the  marching,  the  digging  of 
trenches  and  building  of  breastworks,  the 
skirmishing,  the  expectation  of  encounters  with 
the  enemy — all  this  for  slow  and  weary  months, 
and  at  last  a  great  battle. 

Lizzie,  the  young  wife  at  home,  waited  from 
week  to  week  and  month  to  month,  as  women 
did  in  those  days,  with  what  show  of  patience 
and  composure  they  could  muster — a  proof  of 
courage  and  patriotism  not  less  than  that  of  going 
to  war.  The  soldiers'  story  may  sometimes  be 
told,  but  where  is  the  historian  who  shall  portray 
the  agony  of  the  women's  waiting  hearts,  the  suf- 
fering of  uncertainty  and  suspense?  Who  shall 
comprehend  the  anguish  of  their  tears?  Who 
understand  that  the  strain  of  constant  dread  of 
evil  news  from  husband  and  brother  and  lover 
was  greater  than  that  felt  by  the  soldier  before 
the  enemy's  guns — that  it  left  unhealed  scars 
that  aged  them  before  their  time? 

Lizzie  Martin  fared  like  the  other  women — 

hoping  and  praying,  living  upon  the  letters  that 

came  at  irregular  intervals,  going  about  her  tasks 

by  day,  with  heavy  heart,  and  enduring  long 

6  81 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

nights  with  their  visions  of  war  and  woe.  In  the 
little  town  from  which  the  flower  of  the  young 
men  had  already  gone,  existence  was  not  gay  at 
the  best  of  times,  and  was  now  more  monotonous 
than  ever  to  the  women,  whose  part  was  to  wait. 
There  were  few  things  to  distract  their  minds 
from  their  own  anxieties;  they  were  not  the 
'  'new"  women,  with  many  and  diverse  activities, 
and  so  they  sat  at  home  and  thought  of  what 
might  be.  Mrs.  Davis  did  not  love  her  husband 
more  than  the  other  lonely  women  loved  theirs, 
perhaps ;  but  without  him  she  was  quite  alone 
in  the  world,  and  it  was  natural  that  no  event  of 
the  war  was  important  in  which  he  had  no  place. 
That  brawny  private,  that  long-limbed,  awkward 
farmer  boy,  was  all  the  world  to  her.  No  future 
opened  to  her  vision  which  he  did  not  share. 
She  was  a  commonplace  little  creature,  narrow 
in  thought  and  limited  in  capacity,  but  other  and 
greater  women  have  found  it  all  of  life  to  love 
one  man. 

Letters  came  to  her  from  Tennessee  now. 
Martin  wrote  that  it  looked  as  if  some  righting 
would  be  done  very  soon  that  would  scatter  the 
rebels  and  end  the  war.  Then  came  the  fall  of 
Forts  Henry  and  Donelson,  and  he  wrote  with 
82 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

still  greater  certainty  that  the  war  was  soon  to 
close.  Men  better  informed  than  he  thought  so 
then.  After  that  there  was  marching  across 
country,  transportation  by  boat  up  the  Tennes- 
see, more  marching,  with  rain  and  mud  and  cold 
as  features  of  the  travel — all  this  described  in 
fragmentary  scrawls.  One  of  them,  dated  April 
5th,  and  written  on  a  scrap  of  paper  while  he 
stood  in  the  rain  with  his  company  awaiting 
orders,  said  there  would  be  fighting  soon,  and 
added:  "Here's  a  yellow  violet;  just  found  it 
under  a  bank.  Season's  early  down  here. 
We're  going  to  beat  the  rebs  out  of  their  boots. 
Good-bye." 

This  note,  and  then — silence.  There  had 
been  a  battle;  it  was  Shiloh — bloody  Shiloh. 
On  its  gory  field,  when  the  /th  of  April  dawned, 
the  dead  lay  by  thousands — the  blue  and  the 
gray.  Oh,  Shiloh !  the  waiting  hearts  that 
broke  when  your  victory  was  won ! 

Private  Davis,  of  Company  D,  was  numbered 
among  the  dead.  A  comrade  wrote  to  Lizzie, 
telling  her  that  Martin  had  died  like  a  hero .  A  part 
of  his  regiment  had  faced  about  and  retreated, 
broken  in  a  panic  before  the  Confederates'  furi- 
ous onslaught;  but  he  had  remained,  had  seized 
83 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

the  flag  from  the  hand  of  the  fleeing  color-bearer 
and  gone  on  triumphantly  to  meet  the  coming 
foe.  In  the  thick  of  the  fight  he  was  seen  to 
fall,  "and,"  said  the  writer,  with  no  art  at  soft- 
ening cruel  truth,  "he  was  buried  in  a  trench." 
To  the  widow  a  realizing  sense  of  the  death 
did  not  come.  It  is  often  so  when  those  away 
from  home  are  taken ;  to  their  families  they  seem 
still  temporarily  absent  and  likely  to  return  at 
any  hour.  She  accepted  the  situation  dumbly, 
uncomplainingly.  She  had  no  longer  a  keen 
interest  in  life,  and  was  without  the  strength  of 
character  to  rise  above  her  grief  and  force  her- 
self to  accept  new  interests.  She  was  simply  an 
every-day  woman,  who  had  loved  her  husband 
and  continued  to  love  and  to  think  of  him  day 
and  night,  though  he  was  dead.  She  sold  her 
farm  to  a  rich  neighbor,  who  took  advantage  of 
her  ignorance  to  pay  her  but  half  its  value,  and 
she  was  deprived  of  a  large  share  of  the  pro- 
ceeds by  a  sharper  to  whom  she  intrusted  them 
for  investment.  Then  she  settled  down  in  the 
little  town  and  became  a  neighborhood  drudge. 
She  sewed,  nursed  the  sick,  took  care  of  the 
new  babies,  and  was  at  the  beck  and  call  of  any 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

housewife  who  needed  her  in  domestic  emergen- 
cies. 

The  years  went  on  with  little  variety.  The 
war  ended,  and  affairs  settled  into  new  grooves. 
A  flood  of  prosperity  swept  over  the  country 
and  affected  even  this  quiet  town,  but  made  lit- 
tle difference  in  Mrs.  Davis's  plodding,  unevent- 
ful existence.  No  one  pitied  her  especially  for 
her  lonely  and  hard-working  life.  She  was 
spoken  of  as  "the  widow  Davis,"  but  she  was 
only  one  among  many  widows  the  war  had  cre- 
ated, and,  as  she  made  no  ado  over  her  woes, 
no  one  else  thought  to  do  it  for  her.  They  had 
their  own  troubles  to  think  of.  They  did  say, 
along  at  first,  that  she  didn't  take  Mart's  death 
very  hard.  She  "didn't  make  no  fuss,"  they 
said,  and  they  "  'lowed"  she  was  "ruther  shal- 
ler."  Afterwards  they  practically  forgot  him, 
and  assumed  that  she  had  done  the  same.  But 
she  never  put  off  her  simple  mourning  garb;  her 
mouth  fixed  itself  in  a  pathetic  little  droop ;  her 
brown  hair  faded  early.  And  she  would  not 
marry  again.  Ten  years  after  Shiloh,  John 
Holt,  a  thrifty  widower,  attracted  by  her  quiet, 
industrious  ways,  sought  her  as  a  step-mother 
for  his  children. 

85 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

"No,  Mr.  Holt,"  she  said.  "I  can't  be 
your  wife.  Martin  Davis  is  dead  and  buried, 
but  I  can't  make  him  seem  dead  nohow;  I 
never  have,  an'  I  don't  reckon  I  ever  can.  I 
ieel  as  if  he  was  gone  jest  on  a  trip;  an'  I 
dream  of  him  o'  nights,  an'  I'm  always  glad 
when  night  comes,  because  them  dreams  come, 
too.  I'll  go  along  by  myself  till  the  time  comes 
for  me  to  go  and  meet  Martin — but  it's  long, 
long!" 

And  then,  her  self-repression  overcome  by 
the  sudden  compassion  in  the  man's  eyes,  she 
bowed  her  head  upon  the  table  and  sobbed  and 
wept  in  the  utter  abandonment  of  a  grief  which 
knows  no  pretense. 

John  Holt  went  away  thoughtful,  and  was 
afterwards  heard  to  say  it  was  a  "sing'lar  dis- 
pensation o'  Providence  that  took  a  man  away 
from  a  wife  like  that  an'  let  other  men  live 
whose  wives  wouldn't  a-mourned  for  'em  over 
night  if  they'd  drownded  theirselves." 

More  years  went,  until,  one  day,  Mrs.  Davis 
heard  of  an  excursion  that  filled  her  patient 
soul  with  longing.  This  was  a  trip  by  boat  to 
Shiloh  battleground.  She  had  never  been 
iurther  from  home  than  to  Cincinnati,  fifty  miles 
86 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

away,  where  she  had  gone  once  when  a  girl, 
but  she  determined  to  make  this  journey.  It 
was  a  great  undertaking,  and  she  got  ready  for 
it.  with  an  excitement  such  as  had  not  stirred 
her  for  years.  She  never  thought  of  the  South 
but  as  the  rebels'  country,  and,  though  she 
knew  there  were  no  rebels  now,  there  was  down 
in  her  heart  a  dull  hatred  of  all  Southerners, 
because  but  for  them  there  would  have  been  no 
war — but  for  a  certain  one  of  them  who  had  fired 
a  fatal  shot  she  would  not  have  been  left  in 
loneliness  all  these  long  years. 

Men  and  women  of  the  world  who,  through 
contact  with  people  of  many  localities,  have 
gained  the  ability  to  judge  their  fellow-be- 
ings dispassionately  find  it  difficult  to  compre- 
hend the  limitations  of  one  who  has  but  a  single 
point  of  view.  Lizzie  Davis  had  had  but  one 
great  interest  in  life,  and  had  never  been  able  to 
consider  the  outside  world  in  any  other  than  its 
relation  to  herself. 

The  trip  down  the  Ohio  river,  though  novel, 
aroused  no  emotion ;  once  on  the  Tennessee  she 
began  to  brighten.  Martin  had  made  this  jour- 
ney not  long  before  his  death.  The  war,  now 
so  far  past,  was  brought  close  to  her.  The  bat- 
87 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

tie  seemed  but  a  little  while  back.  On  the 
wooded  bluffs  she  could  almost  see  rebel  skir- 
mishers in  hiding.  Her  meek,  feminine  soul, 
which  had  never  before  directed  a  cruel  thought 
toward  any  individual,  suddenly  throbbed  with 
fierce  resentment;  the  slow,  easy-going  natives, 
who  strolled  down  to  the  landings  and  leisurely 
carried  their  freight  up  the  bank  in  primitive 
fashion,  seemed  to  her  to  represent  a  blood- 
thirsty, murderous  people.  She  eyed  them 
malevolently. 

One  day  the  captain  of  the  boat  sat  down  by 
her  side  on  the  deck.  He  was  a  middle-aged 
man  of  slow,  soft  speech  and  gentle  manner — as 
far  removed  from  the  typical  bluff,  gruff,  pro- 
fane, aggressive  river  man  of  literature  as  possi- 
ble. He  had  already  won  Mrs.  Davis 's  confi- 
dence by  his  deferential  courtesy  and  attentions 
to  which  she  was  a  stranger  at  home.  There  no 
one  was  unkind,  but  certainly  no  one  was  no- 
ticeably considerate  of  the  comfort  of  women, 
especially  those  of  no  particular  importance. 
He  narrated  to  her  bits  of  history  about  the 
places  along  the  river,  with  every  foot  of  which 
he  was  familiar,  and  told  anecdotes  of  the  peo- 


88 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

pie,  half  of  whom  he  seemed  to  know  by  their 
Christian  names. 

"  How  can  you  speak  so  kindly  of  them,  an' 
you  a  soldier,  too?"  she  broke  out  at  last. 
"  Rebels  I  reckon  they  were,  most  of  'em,  an' 
killed  our  men,  an'  would  do  it  again  if  they 
had  a  chance." 

He  turned  to  her  slowly  and  without  a  sign  of 
surprise;  she  was  not  a  new  type  to  him. 

"Madam,  these  people  along  heah  were 
mostly  Union  sympathizers  during  the  wah. 
I  was  a  soldier  in  the  Confede'at  ahmy." 

It  was  a  shock.  Ex-rebels  had  found  their 
way  to  her  little  village  since  the  war,  but  a 
good  many  sons  had  gone  out  from  there  to 
fight  for  the  Union,  and  never  to  return,  and 
those  wanderers  from  the  South  were  not  made 
welcome,  but  had  mostly  drifted  on  to  regions 
elsewhere  in  Indiana  where  were  friends  and 
sympathizers.  She  had  never  so  much  as  talked 
with  one  before. 

Then  he  told  her,  in  a  quiet,  reminiscent  way, 
some  stories  of  his  youth  and  his  far  Southern 
home ;  of  how  the  South  was  then  all  the  coun- 
try he  knew,  and  the  North  a  far-off,  cold  re- 
gion, whose  people,  he  was  taught,  cared  only 
89 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

to  buy  and  sell,  and  to  subjugate  and  rob  the 
South ;  of  how  the  war  broke  out  and  one  by 
one  his  neighbors  joined  the  army,  then  his 
brothers,  and  then  himself,  a  boy  of  sixteen — all 
filled  with  fierce  patriotism  and  the  blind  belief 
that  they  were  fighting  for  the  right ;  of  how  his 
brothers  had  been  slain,  and  how  he  had  gone 
home,  when  at  last  the  conflict  was  over,  to  find 
that  home  dismantled,  the  mother  who  had  been 
its  center  forever  gone,  and  he,  yet  a  boy  in 
years,  lonely,  disheartened  and  forlorn. 

It  was  a  revelation  to  the  woman  of  few  ideas 
that  rebels — rebels ! — were  creatures  with  loves 
and  sorrows  like  her  own. 

And  they  went  on  up  the  shining  river,  and  a 
little  of  the  peace  and  beauty  of  it  entered  into 
her  soul.  It  was  May,  and  the  fields  and  for- 
ests were  in  freshest  array.  The  gray-green 
willows,  the  rank  water  maples  and  the  glossy 
oaks  that  crowded  the  river  bank  were  fringed 
with  undergrowth,  and  their  trunks  lost  in  a  tan- 
gle of  honey-suckles,  grape-vines  and  ivy.  It 
was  primitive  wilderness,  such  as  the  Indian 
must  have  looked  at  in  his  day. 

Then  came  Fort  Henry.  The  boat,  which 
stopped  accommodatingly  wherever  a  would-be 
90 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

traveler  waived  a  handkerchief,  obligingly  made 
fast  while  passengers  climbed  the  hill  and  wan- 
dered over  the  old  earthworks  that  made  the 
walls  of  that  famous  fort.  In  the  glamour  of 
the  moonlight  and  the  softness  of  the  shadows 
could  almost  be  seen  the  soldiers  who  had  once 
crowded  the  place — but  trees  had  grown  up 
within  the  walls  since  that  day,  and  the  soldiers 
— where  were  they? 

Then  Pittsburg  Landing  and  Shiloh,  and  the 
woman  from  the  little  Indiana  town  had  reached 
her  Mecca. 

They  wandered  over  the  battlefield,  those 
tourists ;  they  saw  it  almost  as  it  looked  on  the 
fatal  Sunday  so  long  ago,  only  to-day  the  sun 
shone,  and  then  the  very  heavens  had  wept  at 
the  sight  below.  They  saw  the  place  where  the 
fight  was  fiercest  and  most  furious — the  "Hor- 
net's Nest,"  where  Union  men  and  Confederates 
met  hand  to  hand  and  the  slaughter  was  so 
great  that  the  dead  lay  in  heaps.  They  saw 
the  pool  whose  margin  had  been  red  with  the 
blood  of  wounded  men  who  had  dragged  them- 
selves there  to  quench  their  raging  thirst.  To- 
day cattle  drank  from  it  undisturbed. 

There  were  houses  here  and  there — primitive 
91 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

structures,  hardly  more  than  cabins.  Mrs.  Davis 
stopped  at  the  door  of  one  to  ask  for  water.  An 
old  woman  came  out,  a  woman  with  a  scant 
calico  gown  and  clumsy  shoes,  and  eyes  blurred 
perhaps  with  age,  possibly  with  tears,  but  kindly 
still.  She  grew  garrulous  in  response  to  a  timid 
question. 

"Yes,  she  had  lived  hereabouts  evah  since 
befo'  the  wah.  She  an'  her  ole  man  was  Union, 
but  their  six  boys  couldn't  no  ways  agree,  an' 
three  j'ined  the  Union  ahmy  an'  three  the  Con- 
fede'at.  An',  yes — yes,  it's  all  done  ended 
long  ago,  but  some  days  the  time  seems  yistiddy, 
an'  it  all  comes  back.  Her  ole  man  couldn't 
keep  out  no  ways  when  the  boys  was  gone,  an' 
he  jined,  too,  when  General  Sherman  come 
along.  An' — yes,  the  boys  was  all  killed;  three 
at  Donelson,  two  here  at  Shiloh  Church,  an'  one 
at  Chattanooga.  Their  pap  didn't  live  long  after ; 
sort  o'  broke  down  like.  An'  if  it  wasn't  that 
the  boys  who  died  here  were  buried  in  a  Con- 
fede'at  trench  (did  the  visitor  see  the  ridge  over 
thataway?)  she  reckoned  she'd  disremembah 
which  was  Union  an'  which  wasn't.  Such  things 
didn't  seem  to  make  no  difference,  nohow,  when 
they  alls  was  gone  to  rest  twel  jedgment  day." 
92 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

The  woman  who  had  lost  one  and  the  woman 
who  had  lost  seven  looked  in  each  other's  eyes 
and  knew  the  kinship  of  grief,  and  somehow  the 
visitor  from  the  North  felt  no  longer  a  personal 
resentment  for  her  loss.  Though  it  might  have 
been  a  son  of  this  woman  who  shot  her  Martin, 
he  had  thought  he  was  right  and  meant  no 
evil. 

Then  she  entered  the  gates  of  the  National 
Cemetery,  where  the  Union  dead  are  laid  in 
long  lines,  with  a  granite  block  marking  each 
resting  place.  The  captain  of  the  boat  joined 
her  at  the  gate,  and  as  he  passed  in  he  plucked 
a  sprig  of  cedar.  The  sun  shining  through  the 
branches  of  the  great  forest  trees  flecked  the 
grass  upon  the  graves ;  a  soft  May  breeze  scat- 
tered the  leaves  of  the  early  blooming  roses. 
Down  between  the  rows  of  stones  they  walked, 
and  the  captain,  pausing  at  one  bearing  the 
number  1607,  lifted  his  hat  reverently  and  laid 
the  bit  of  cedar  upon  it. 

"I  put  a  little  posy  there  every  time  I  come," 
he  said  gently ;  "I  reckoned  that  may  be  the 
wife  or  mother  of  the  boy  lying  there  might  like 
it." 

The  man  lying  there  might  be  her  Martin, 
93 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

thought  the  little  widow,  and  from  that  moment 
her  heart  ceased  to  cherish  animosity  toward  any 
man  who  had  fought  on  the  other  side. 

She  stood  on  the  bluff  and  looked  down  on 
the  sparkling,  glinting  river.  The  panorama  of 
water  and  sky  and  hill  stretching  for  miles  be- 
fore her  was  a  vision  fair  to  see.  The  flag  of 
her  country  floated  from  the  great  staff  above ; 
the  only  sound  was  the  singing  of  the  birds,  and 
the  peace  of  God  was  over  all. 

More  years  went  by,  and  the  Widow  Davis 
plodded  patiently  through  them,  getting  a  little 
more  weary  as  they  passed  and  finding  the  bur- 
den of  loneliness  none  the  easier  to  bear  as  age 
crept  on.  That  visit  to  Shiloh  had  taught  her 
some  things,  toleration  among  the  rest,  but  it 
had  also  taken  away  one  thing  that  had  been  a 
secret  source  of  comfort  to  her.  Until  that  time 
she  had  pictured  to  herself  the  return  of  her 
husband.  She  was  a  woman  with  but  scant 
imaginative  power,  but  where  even  the  dullest 
mind  dwells  much  upon  one  subject  it  weaves 
about  it  a  network  of  fancy  far  different  from 
reality.  She  had  not  seen  her  husband  dead ; 
a  battle  was  a  vague  thing  to  her ;  he  had  sim- 
94 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

ply  gone  away  and  had  not  come  back.  Per- 
haps he  had  been  wounded,  had  lost  a  leg  or  an 
arm,  and  a  prisoner  in  rebel  hands  was  long  in 
recovering.  Then,  perhaps  —  here  her  fancy 
took  a  wild  leap — perhaps  he  was  told  by  some 
one  that  she  was  dead,  or  that  she,  thinking 
him  dead,  had  married  again,  though  she  didn't 
quite  see  how  he  could  believe  she  could  marry 
another  man.  But  such  things  had  happened — 
she  had  read  of  them ;  and  supposing  he  had 
believed  it,  he  would  wander  away  and  never 
care  to  revisit  his  old  home  until,  at  last,  he 
somehow  learned  the  truth  and  hastened  to  her 
with  joy.  Or  it  might  be  that  he  had  escaped 
from  his  rebel  prison, had  reached  the  sea-coast, 
had  crept  on  board  some  foreign  vessel,  and 
had  been  carried  to  far-off  lands,  whence  he 
would  some  day  return. 

Vain  imaginings,  but  lonely  women  dream 
strange  things  while  they  go  half  mechanically 
about  their  monotonous  daily  tasks.  Even  the 
happiness  of  happy  women  is  half  in  this  unreal 
inner  life.  After  this  visit  to  Shiloh  these  com- 
forting pictures  were  conjured  up  no  more  in 
Lizzie's  mind.  It  was  all  real  now,  the  battle 
and  the  slaughter,  and  she  had  seen  the  graves 
95 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

where  the  soldiers  lay;  her  thoughts  centered 
about  "  1607,"  where  the  captain's  tribute 
rested,  and  she  felt  more  and  more  convinced 
that  Martin  slept  beneath  that  stone.  It  was 
nearly  thirty  years,  a  lifetime,  since  he  went, 
and  he  would  come  to  her  now  only  after 
heaven's  gate  had  opened  to  let  her  in.  She 
had  mourned  her  lost  love  for  thirty  years.  She, 
a  little,  commonplace  woman  of  whom  no  one 
would  have  thought  as  a  heroine  of  romance. 
She  would  not  have  known  what  the  term 
' '  grand  passion  ' '  meant ;  she  had  been  simply 
faithful  to  a  memory  in  a  quiet,  undemonstrative 
way ;  her  life  had  been  bound  up  in  a  sentiment, 
that  was  all. 

One  day  in  April — it  was  the  3<Dth  Shiloh 
anniversary — she  was  at  her  little  cottage,  no 
neighbor  needing  her  services  as  nurse  or  seam- 
stress. It  had  been  an  early  spring,  and  she 
went  out  in  the  garden  to  look  at  the  signs  of 
life  among  her  few  cherished  flowers.  In  a  sun- 
ny corner  wild  violets  grew  and  had  pushed 
green  leaves  above  the  mold,  but  no  buds  were 
yet  in  sight. 

"  I  remember,"  she  said,  speaking  to  a  neigh- 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

bor  who  had  paused  in  passing,  ' '  I  remember 
seeing  violet  flowers  as  early  as  this." 

She  was  thinking  of  those  stuck  in  the  band  of 
Martin's  hat  that  day  so  long  ago  when  he  came 
from  the  field,  and  as  she  spoke  she  looked 
down  the  village  street,  wondering  at  the  unu- 
sual boisterousness  of  the  school  children.  They 
followed  after  and  jeered  at  a  man  who  came 
slowly  and  hesitatingly  along,  as  if  uncertain  of 
his  way.  His  clothing  was  rough,  his  shoulders 
bent  and  his  gait  shambling.  On  his  head  was 
a  military  cap,  such  as  some  old  soldiers  still  in- 
sist upon  wearing,  and  on  its  side  was  some- 
thing like  a  decoration  on  a  woman's  bonnet.  It 
was  this  that  made  the  children  jeer.  Mrs.  Da- 
vis put  her  hand  over  her  eyes  and  looked  at  it 
intently.  Hardly  knowing  what  she  did,  she 
went  out  upon  the  walk  and  down  the  street  to 
meet  him.  When  she  came  closer  she  saw  that 
the  decoration  was  a  bunch  of  yellow  violets. 
She  stopped  before  the  man  and  looked  at  him. 
She  had  never  thought  of  her  husband  as  other 
than  erect,  and  strong,  and  young;  this  man 
was  feeble,  and  dim-eyed,  and  old,  but — she 
knew  him. 

"Martin ! "  she  said ;  '  'Martin ! "  and  reached 
7  97 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

out  her  hands,  forgetful  of  watching  neighbors 
and  wondering  children. 

Something  like  a  miracle  happened  in  that 
moment.  The  years  fell  away  from  her  as  a 
garment ;  the  flush  in  her  cheek,  the  love  light 
in  her  eyes  transfigured  her. 

"  Lizzie!"  said  the  man,  the  dull,  dazed  ex- 
pression clearing  from  his  face.  "  Lizzie,"  and 
he  fumbled  at  his  cap,  "  I — I  thought  ye'd  like 
some  posies,  and  came  round  by  the  holler  and 
got  them." 

She  took  him  by  the  hand  and  led  him  into 
the  house,  her  face  still  illumined. 

The  woman"  who  wrote  stories  and  the  other 
who  read  them  met  again  on  the  street  of  Mul- 
lins.  Toward  them  came  Lizzie  Davis.  She 
was  the  woman  who  had  been  at  the  station 
weeks  before,  but  she  was  like  one  born  again. 
Her  hair  was  faded,  it  is  true;  her  complexion 
gray,  her  dress  old-fashioned  and  rusty,  but  her 
eyes  were  bright,  her  bearing  erect  and  proud, 
her  face  smiling.  She  stopped  a  moment  to 
speak  to  the  woman  who  wrote. 

"Just  think,  Miss,"  she  said;  "Martin  lived 
over  in  Jonesboro,  just  beyond  the  Ohio  line, 
98V 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

and  not  fifty  miles  from  here,  for  twenty  years. 
I've  just  seen  a  man  from  there.  Where  he  had 
been  before  that  time  the  Lord  knows.  The 
man  says  that  they  all  knowed  something  was 
the  matter  with  his  head.  Seemed  to  do  his 
work  well  on  the  farm,  but  every  now  an'  then 
he'd  get  uneasy  an'  talk  an'  talk  about  some 
place  he'd  ought  to  go  if  he  could  only  just 
think  of  the  name ;  an'  when  he  heard  any  one 
call  'Lizzie'  he  always  got  worried  and  fidgety. 
Come  spring,  too,  every  year,  he'd  pick  flowers 
an'  wear  'em  in  his  hat.  Then  at  last  one  day 
his  recollection  seemed  to  come  to  him  sudden, 
and  he  up  an'  started  off,  the  man  said,  acting 
like  a  crazy  lunatic.  He  found  his  way  here, 
an'  he's  getting  to  be  more  like  himself  every 
day,  an'  it  almost  seems  as  if  he'd  never  been 
away." 

A  glow  was  on  her  cheek  like  the  blush  of  a 
bride;  the  thirty  years  of  loneliness  were  as 
naught;  the  children  that  might  have  been  hers, 
the  happiness  and  peace  she  had  missed  were 
forgotten.  The  mother  heart  in  her  went  out  to 
the  broken-down  man  and  was  satisfied.  He 
came  shuffling  down  the  walk. 

"See  how  well  he  looks,"  she  said,  as  she 
99 


AN  ABIDING  LOVE 

hastened  toward  him,  with  a  face  through  which 
love  shone  as  it  must  shine  on  the  faces  of  the 
angels  in  heaven. 

"You  were  wrong,  you  see,"  softly  said  the 
woman  who  wrote,  to  her  friend;  "you  were 
wrong  when  you  declared  there  was  no  romance 
here;  that  the  people  merely  vegetated.  That 
woman  has  lived." 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  "she  has  loved," 


IOO 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

"  TT  WAS  an  exceptional  case,  that  of  the  Mar- 
1   shalls,  Brother  Johnson,  or  I  never  should 
have  advised  them  to  the  course  they  tpok." 

The  speaker,  familiarly  known  as  Father  Allen 
to  all  the  region  round  about,  was  a  minister  of 
the  Methodist  denomination,  who,  after  an  itin- 
erant life  of  forty  years,  had,  as  his  professional 
brethren  put  it,  ' '  assumed  the  superannuated  re- 
lation." This  being  interpreted,  meant-  that  he 
had  retired  from  regular  duty  and  occupied  him- 
self, as  age  and  strength  would  permit,  in  ren- 
dering such  service  to  neighboring  members  of 
his  old  flock  as  occasion  called  for.  An  old 
minister  comes  to  be  identified  with  a  family  as 
no  newcomer  can.  He  has  comforted  its  mem- 
bers in  their  sorrows  and  participated  in  their 
pleasures ;  he  has  been  with  them  at  their  funer- 
als and  their  marriage  feasts,  and  in  the  emer- 
gencies of  life  they  turn  to  him. 
101 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

To-day,  Father  Allen  had  accompanied  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Johnson,  the  young  preacher 
lately  stationed  at  Amber  Center,  the  little  In- 
diana town  whose  roofs  were  visible  far  across 
the  prairie,  on  his  first  round  of  pastoral  calls. 
They  had  just  taken  their  departure  from  the 
white  farmhouse  of  the  Marshalls,  bearing  with 
them  the  look  of  ineffable  content  that  comes 
to  mankind  only  after  the  consumption  of  a 
bountiful  meal,  and  were  discussing  the  affairs 
of  their  entertainers,  as  is  the  ancient  custom  of 
guests  of  all  degree,  regardless  of  canons  of 
etiquette. 

Acting  on  the  principle  that  a  pastor  should 
be  thoroughly  acquainted  with  the  history  of  his 
flock  in  order  to  meet  its  spiritual  needs,  as  a 
physician  is  better  fitted  to  prescribe  for  a  pa- 
tient's ills  when  he  understands  his  physical 
constitution,  the  old  minister  gave,  with  some- 
what garrulous,  not  to  say  gossipy,  detail,  par- 
ticulars of  each  individual's  life  to  the  new  shep- 
herd. 

"Yes,  it  was  an  exceptional  case.   It  is  hardly 

necessary  to  say,  I  hope,  Brother  Johnson,  that 

I  am  opposed  to  divorce.     The  ease  with  which 

legal  separations  are  to  be  had  is  one  of    the 

102 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

greatest  evils  of  our  time ;  I  need  not  enlarge  on 
that.  Still — Brother  Johnson,  one  must  use 
judgment,  and  it  is  difficult  to  make  an  iron-clad 
rule  for  all  cases.  'A  rule  already  made,'  do 
you  say?  Well,  yes,  yes — of  course.  As  a 
general  thing  it  is  best  to  abide  by  the  literal 
scriptural  injunction,  and  I  am  the  last  person 
to  countenance  any  other  course.  Nevertheless, 
my  son,  you  will  find,  as  your  experience  with 
the  realities  of  the  world  broadens,  that  it  is 
sometimes  inexpedient  to  insist  upon  too  rigid 
an  application  of  the  letter  of  the  law. 

"Now,  in  the  case  of  the  Marshalls,  John  was 
very  deeply  attached  to  his  first  wife,  whom  he 
married  on  the  day  of  his  enlistment  in  the 
army,  twenty  years  ago ;  very  deeply  attached, 
no  doubt  of  it.  His  wife,  pretty  Rose  Lytle, 
was  fond  of  him  in  her  way,  too,  but  she  was 
of  a  clinging,  dependent  nature,  and  would,  per- 
haps, have  been  equally  happy  had  it  chanced 
to  be  another  than  John,  who  had  so  devoted 
himself  to  her.  The  woman  who  loved  him 
most  deeply  on  the  day  of  his  marriage  was 
Rose's  cousin  and  adopted  sister,  Mary;  but 
that  was  her  secret.  Many  a  woman  has  such. 
Rose  was  a  pretty  creature.  It  wa?  twenty 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

years  ago,  but  I  remember  her  well.  She 
reminded  me — my  wife's  name  was  Rose,  too." 

The  old  man's  voice  faltered.  It  was  not 
upon  the  prospect  near  that  his  dim  eyes  were 
wistfully  fixed,  but  upon  something  far  beyond. 
Before  them  the  western  sky  was  gorgeous  with 
crimson  and  purple  and  gold — fit  reminder  of 
the  gates  of  the  New  Jerusalem — but  Mr.  John- 
son removed  his  gaze  from  the  glory  of  the  sun- 
set to  glance  curiously  at  his  aged  companion, 
knowing  as  he  did,  that  the  name  of  the  present 
Mrs.  Allen  was  Sarah,  and  that  the  neatly 
framed  portrait  of  her  immediate  predecessor 
was  carefully  labeled,  "My  beloved  consort, 
Matilda." 

"A  week  later,"  resumed  the  elder  gentle- 
man, "  John  was  on  his  way  with  his  regiment 
to  the  South,  and  the  women  were  left  to  each 
other's  company.  The  months  following  went 
by  slowly  enough,  no  doubt,  to  the  girl  in  the 
lonely  prairie  home  and  to  the  man  toiling  in 
Virginia  trenches,  or  marching  over  sodden 
hills ;  time  moves  slowly,  you  know,  when  one 
is  young  and  impatient." 

"When  the  'body  is  in  Segovia'  and  the 
'soul  is  in  Madrid,'  "  softly  interpolated  the  lis- 
104 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

tener,  who  was  yet  young  enough  to  permit  sen- 
timent to  come  to  the  surface  now  and  then. 

"But  time  goes  for  all, "  continued  the  old  min- 
ister, "and  before  the  year's  close  it  had  ended 
to  the  consciousness  of  one  of  the  pair.  A  re- 
port that  John  had  been  killed  in  battle  came 
suddenly  to  the  ears  of  the  waiting  wife — a  false 
report,  as  later  appeared,  like  so  many  that 
came  from  'the  front'  in  those  days.  Next  day 
their  son  was  born,  but  the  mother  had  no  smile 
at  the  sight  of  the  baby  face.  The  shock  of  the 
news  had  deprived  her  of  reason.  Physical 
strength  came  back  in  time,  but  with  its  return 
the  insanity  increased  until  she  raved  with  mad- 
ness and  became  dangerously  violent.  The  hus- 
band, who  had  been  wounded  only,  came  home 
on  furlough,  but  his  presence  excited  her  to 
fierce  outbursts. 

"  It  was  a  long  time  before  John  or  the  cousin 
Mary,  patiently  devoted  to  mother  and  child, 
would  consent  to  send  the  cherished  and  petted 
girl  away  from  their  own  care  to  an  institution 
for  the  insane ;  but  finally  the  safety  of  all  de- 
manded it.  She  was  taken  to  an  asylum  and  is 
there  to-day. 

"John  rejoined  his  regiment,  and  when  the 
105 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

war  was  over  came  back  to  find  his  home  and 
child  well  cared  for  by  the  faithful  Mary.  Mat- 
ters went  on  in  this  way  for  a  while,  with  the  ad- 
dition of  himself  as  head  of  the  household.  Left 
to  himself,  he  would  perhaps  have  discovered 
no  reason  why  the  agreeable  conditions  should 
not  continue,  but  when  Mary,  the  center  of  this 
home  life,  suddenly  resumed  her  old  occupation 
of  teaching,  and  would  give  no  explanation  of 
her  course  to  the  bewildered  man  save  that  she 
preferred  the  change,  there  were  neighbors  will- 
ing to  enlighten  him.  In  the  matter  of  social 
conventionalities  and  proprieties  people  in  coun- 
try communities  are  very  exacting,  Brother 
Johnson,  and  it  was  not  considered  proper  that 
Mary  should  remain  as  housekeeper  for  a  man 
who  was  her  brother-in-law  only  by  courtesy. 

"Naturally,  this  was  the  beginning  of  the 
end.  They  soon  discovered  each  other's  senti- 
ments and  came  to  me  for  advice,  separately 
and  together.  The  physicians  had  assured 
them  that  Rose  was  hopelessly  insane;  that 
while  no  one  could  say  with  absolute  certainty 
that  she  would  not  recover,  the  tendencies  in  her 
case  gave  no  encouragement  for  such  hope.  In- 
sanity was  not  specified  as  legal  cause  for  di- 
106 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

vorce,  but  in  those  days,  Indiana  courts  were 
allowed  by  the  statutes  far  greater  liberty  and 
discretion  than  now,  and,  under  the  circum- 
stances, there  was  no  difficulty  in  the  way  of 
securing  a  decree  of  separation.  The  only 
question  with  these  two,  Mary  and  John,  was 
whether  it  was  right  for  John  to  be  divorced 
even  with  conditions  as  they  were.  They  were 
conscientious  and  argued  for  and  against  them- 
selves." 

"To  me  it  seemed  one  of  the  exceptional  cases. 
Marshall  needed  some  one  at  the  head  of  his  es- 
tablishment ;  he  had  not  so  warm  an  affection  for 
this  woman,  perhaps,  as  for  Rose,  but  he  would 
make  her  a  good  husband.  Mary  cared  for  him 
as  she  never  could  for  another.  It  is  best  for 
women  to  marry.  It  seemed  to  me  expedient 
that  these  two  should  be  united,  and  so  I  ad- 
vised the  divorce.  I  am  still  of  the  opinion  that 
the  course  was  wise." 

"Mrs.  Marshall's  expression  did  not  strike 
me  as  that  of  a  particularly  happy  woman," 
said  Mr.  Johnson.  "She  looked  sad,  I  thought, 
and  anxious." 

"Women,  as  a  class,  are  foolish,"  hastily  ex- 
claimed the  old  man.  "The  best  of  them  have 
107 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

imaginary  troubles.  Mrs.  Marshall  allows  her- 
self to  be  tormented  by  the  fear  that  Rose  will 
yet  be  cured,  and  reproaches  herself  at  the  same 
time  for  dreading  what  ought,  under  other  cir- 
cumstances, to  be  a  blessing.  However,  as  I 
said,  women  will  find  something  to  worry  over, 
and  if  it  were  not  for  this  fanciful  notion,  Mrs. 
Marshall,  good,  sensible  woman  that  she  is, 
would  have  some  other.  I  believe  she  did 
well." 

As  they  drove  up  the  village  street  in  the 
haze  of  the  late  Indian  summer  twilight  the 
young  minister  breathed  a  sigh.  He  had  been 
impressed  by  what  the  poet  calls  the  large, 
sweet  calmness  of  the  prairie ;  but  peace,  after 
all,  did  not,  it  seemed,  abide  with  the  people. 
He  wondered  what  would  be  the  end  if,  at  last, 
the  innocent,  but  cast-off  wife  should  be  restored 
to  the  realities  of  life. 

Back  in  the  white  house  on  the  prairie  the 
first  chapter  of  the  sequel  to  the  old  minister's 
story  had  even  then  begun. 

After  the  visitors  had  driven  away,  John 
Marshall  and  his  wife  stood  on  the  steps,  his 
eyes  fixed  absently  on  the  purple  line  of  the  hor- 
108 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

izon  far  across  the  level  plain,  she,  with  her 
face  turned  toward  his.  A  question  was  on  her 
lips,  but  she  did  not  speak,  only  touched  his 
arm  softly  while  the  look  of  vague  apprehension 
in  her  eyes  deepened  into  what  was  almost  ter- 
ror. At  last  he  moved  until  his  glance  met 
hers. 

"What  you  have  always  dreaded  has  hap- 
pened," he  said.  "Rose  has  recovered  her 
mind." 

The  woman  at  his  side  did  not  cry  out  nor 
moan — she  was  not  of  the  demonstrative  sort; 
but  a  change  come  over  her  while  she  stood 
there  as  if  she  had  suddenly  grown  old  and 
feeble.  Her  face  looked  pinched  and  gray.  She 
took  her  hand  from  his  arm  and  moved  back  a 
pace — a  movement  that  told  its  own  story.  Af- 
ter a  moment  he  went  on  steadily : 

"The  doctor  writes  that  it  is  a  very  unex- 
pected recovery ;  quite  remarkable  in  the  history 
of  such  cases.  She  is  well  as  ever,  mentally, 
but  oddly  enough  her  bodily  strength  has  as 
suddenly  failed,  and,  according  to  what  he  says, 
she  is  not  likely  to  be  better.  It  is  not  probable 
at  the  best  that  she  will  live  many  months — 
perhaps  not  even  weeks ;  but  in  order  to  pro- 
109 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

long  her  life,  as  well  as  to  retain  her  mental  bal- 
ance, she  must  be  carefully  guarded  from  a 
shock  of  any  sort.  This,  above  all  things,  must  be 
the  care  of  those  about  her,  he  says,  and  ex- 
plains that  he  has  said  nothing  to  her  concern- 
ing our  family  affairs.  And,"  after  a  pause  in 
which  he  glanced  uneasily  at  his  wife,  "Rose 
wants  to  come  home." 

She  looked  at  him  with  calm,  tearless  eyes. 

"Do  you  wish  her  to  come?"  she  asked. 

"Well,"  he  answered,  hesitatingly,  "it's  a 
queer  fix.  We're  all  she's  got,  you  know,  you 
and  I ,  and  to  send  her  among  strangers  now — it 
doesn't  seem  just  right.  She  was  our  little  Rose, 

you  remember,  and .     If  she  were  well  it 

would  be  different,  of  course.  Still,  if  you  think 
it  won't  do — if  you  can't  have  it  so,  let  it  be  as 
you  please,  Mary." 

"I  only  wanted  to  know  what  you  wished. 
Do  you  think  I  would  say  to  you,  I  who  took 
her  place,  that  our  doors  must  be  shut  against 
her?  We  will  go  to-morrow  and  bring  her  home, 
and  I  will  do  what  I  can  to  make  her  last  days 
happy." 

John  Marshall  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief  as  if  a 


no 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

weight  were  lifted  from  his  mind.  He  looked 
at  his  wife  approvingly. 

"You  are  a  good  woman,  Mary,"  he  said. 

Many  a  man  addressing  such  words  to  his 
wife  would  have  followed  them  with  a  caress, 
but  John  Marshall  turned  away  and  went  about 
his  evening  tasks  while  Mary  passed  slowly  and 
wearily  into  the  house.  A  coat  belonging  to 
her  husband  hung  in  the  hall.  She  caught  the 
sleeve  in  her  hand  and  kissed  it.  A  girl  or  a 
gay  young  matron  might  have  been  thus  child- 
ishly demonstrative  without  suspicion  of  any 
deeper  feeling  than  an  impulsive  outburst  of 
affection  toward  the  owner  of  the  garment.  Dis- 
cerning eyes  like  those  of  Father  Allen,  grown 
keen  with  a  half  century's  study  of  human 
weaknesses,  would  have  seen  in  the  act  of  this 
middle-aged  woman  the  betrayal  of  a  heart's 
hunger. 

Mechanically  she  went  about  her  household 
duties  and  preparations  for  the  guest,  the  dread 
of  whose  possible  coming  had  hung  over  her 
like  a  shadow  for  fifteen  years.  No  detail  was 
overlooked  in  arranging  for  the  comfort  of 
"John's  wife,"  as  Mary  caught  herself  calling 
in  her  thoughts  the  woman  who  had  dropped 
in 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

oat  of  conscious  existence  so  long  ago.  She 
had  come  back  to  life  as  from  the  dead.  If  a 
wrong  had  been  done  to  her  in  her  helpless 
state  those  who  had  committed  it  must,  as  they 
hoped  for  mercy  hereafter,  do  what  they  could 
to  save  her  from  its  consequences;  there  was 
no  other  way.  They,  the  wrong-doers,  she 
and  John,  must  suffer  in  the  performance  of 
their  duty;  but  they  had  no  right  to  complain. 
It  was  Rose,  little  Rose,  whom  they  had  loved 
and  who  had  trusted  them  so  completely,  who 
was  coming  back,  and  she  must  find  the  doors 
open. 

Like  a  dream  that  day  and  the  next  seemed 
to  her  afterwards.  The  journey  to  the  city,  the 
meeting  with  the  one  so  miraculously  restored 
to  them,  the  return  home,  were  events  that  fixed 
themselves  but  dimly  on  her  memory.  The  cen- 
tral fact  that  the  companion  of  her  girlhood,  the 
wife  of  John's  youth,  was  with  them  again  ab- 
sorbed her  faculties  to  the  exclusion  of  lesser  mat- 
ters. It  was  not  until  Rose  was  installed  in  the  sun- 
ny upper  room  and  the  domestic  routine  had 
adjusted  itself  to  the  change  in  affairs  that  the  sec- 
ond wife  realized  the  nature  of  the  task  she  had 


112 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

set  herself  to  do — that  had  been  imposed  upon 
her  she  whispered  in  bitter  protest  sometimes. 

Her  married  life  had  been  haunted  by  the  fear 
that  Rose  might  regain  her  reason,  but  the  pic- 
ture formed  in  her  fancy  had  been  of  a  wan  and 
haggard  creature  heaping  reproaches  on  the  hus- 
band who  had  been  unfaithful  in  her  absence, 
and  on  the  woman  who  had  promised  a  dying 
father  to  care  for  her  and  had  then  usurped  her 
place.  Never  had  she,  in  her  wildest  dreams, 
contemplated  anything  like  the  reality  which  she 
now  faced. 

It  was  no  pallid,  wild-eyed  woman  who  sat  in 
the  upper  chamber  s  but  a  smiling  guest  whose 
every  wish  was  honored.  Strangely  enough, 
the  change  that  had  been  wrought  in  Rose's 
mental  condition  had  its  counterpart  in  a  phys- 
ical transformation.  The  deathly  paleness,  the 
hollow  cheek,  the  look  of  age  which  had  charac- 
terized the  insane  woman  had  given  way  to  a 
color  rivaling  the  peachy  bloom  of  twenty  years 
before;  the  blue  eyes,  dull  for  so  long,  shone 
with  all  their  old  vivid  brilliancy  beneath  the 
long  lashes ;  the  face  was  rounded  out,  and  its 
youthful  outlines  were  emphasized  by  the  baby- 
ish rings  of  fair  hair  that  lay  about  the  white 
8  113 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

forehead.  The  weakness  and  languor  that  ac- 
companied this  change  and  did  not  pass  away 
only  added  to  her  attractiveness.  As  she 
leaned  back  upon  the  cushions  of  the  chair  that 
she  seldom  left  it  was  difficult  to  believe  that  the 
face  was  that  of  one  who  had  lived  past  her  girl- 
hood. To  the  lookers-on  it  seemed  that  nature 
had  endeavored  to  compensate  for  the  lost  years 
by  a  veritable  renewal  of  youth  and  beauty. 

It  was  not  the  difficult  task  that  had  been 
feared  to  guard  her  against  injurious  shocks. 
She  quietly  assumed,  without  question,  that  the 
relations  of  her  loved  ones  were  as  they  had  been 
of  old;  indeed  she  seemed  not  to  realize  the 
time  that  had  passed  since  she  left  them.  John 
was  her  husband ;  Mary,  the  dear  sister  who  had 
kept  his  house  and  awaited  her  recovery  and  re- 
turn. Rose  asked  for  her  son  but  showed  little 
emotion  when  told  with  hesitant  caution — this 
was  one  of  the  things  that  could  not  be  concealed 
or  denied — that  he  had  been  a  feeble  child 
who,  after  five  years  of  baby  life,  had  left  them 
and  gone  to  heaven.  The  infant  had  not  formed 
a  part  of  the  life  she  remembered,  and  knowledge 
of  his  death  did  not  move  her  deeply.  In  tell- 
ing the  story  of  the  little  one  whom  she  had  loved 
114 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

like  her  own,  Mary  thought,  with  almost  a  guilty 
feeling,  of  the  sturdy  boy  who  called  her  mother 
and  whose  existence  must  be  so  carefully  hid- 
den. The  presence  of  a  boy  in  the  house  might 
be  easily  enough  accounted  for,  but  he  must  not 
come  where  "Aunt  Rose"  was  lest  she  ask  fatal 
questions. 

"It  is  enough  that  you  and  I  must  deceive 
her,  but  my  boy  shall  not  be  taught  to  lie  or  to 
deny  his  birthright,"  said  Mary,  with  fierce  de- 
cision, and  John  had  agreed. 

A  negro  and  his  wife  who  had  followed  John 
from  "ole  Kaintuck"  to  find  a  home  in  the 
North,  and  who  had  been  faithful  servants  ever 
since,  formed  the  rest  of  the  household.  Visit- 
ors were  few.  A  prairie  road  after  November 
rains  is  not  a  thoroughfare  sought  by  any  ex- 
cept those  on  journeys  of  necessity.  The  few 
old  friends  or  curious  neighbors  drawn  thither 
by  the  news  of  Rose's  return  were  quietly  cau- 
tioned not  to  touch  on  personal  matters  in  their 
conversation  with  the  invalid.  This  caution  and 
the  chance  allusions  Rose  made  to  her  "hus- 
band" led  the  visitors,  ignorant  of  the  kindly 
deceit  being  practiced  upon  her,  and  doubtful, 
as  the  most  intelligent  people  often  are,  of  the 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

entire  recovery  of  those  once  insane,  to  believe 
that  her  mind  was  not  yet  sound.  So  it  came 
about  that  the  little  drama  being  enacted  in  that 
prairie  farm-house  had  few  spectators. 

Rose  expressed  little  curiosity  concerning 
events  that  had  happened  during  her  absence, 
and  showed  no  interest  in  affairs  outside  their 
own  little  circle.  She  was  content  to  live  like  a 
child,  taking  up  life  where  she  had  left  it,  and 
thinking  nothing  of  the  morrow.  One  thing 
only  she  demanded  as  her  right,  and  that  the 
hardest  of  all  for  one  member  of  the  household 
to  grant.  "Her  John's"  society  she  claimed  in 
all  of  his  leisure  moments,  and  as  a  farmer  in 
the  position  of  this  man  is  an  independent  being 
who  orders  his  own  goings-in  and  comings-out, 
the  result  was  that  John,  "my  dear  John,"  as 
Rose  called  him,  was  at  her  side  many  hours  in 
the  day.  Mary  might  be  there,  too ;  Rose 
wanted  Mary  also  at  hand,  or  within  call,  but 
without  John  she  fretted  and  was  restless. 

At  first  Mary  quieted  her  misgivings  with  a 
sense  of  shame  at  their  existence.  John,  she 
said,  was,  like  herself,  trying  to  do  his  duty. 
She  could  serve  the  invalid  in  other  ways;  he 
could  only  bear  her  company.  But  the  days 
116 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

went  on,  and  that  upper  room  became  a  place 
of  torture  for  the  lawful  wife  so  steadfastly  doing 
that  which  seemed  best. 

Johr  was  good;  he  was  a  good  man,  she  said 
over  and  over.  Not  to  himself  would  the  loyal 
soul  willingly  utter  a  complaint  of  the  one  she 
loved,  but  at  last  she  could  no  longer  close  her 
eyes  to  the  truth.  In  an  agony  which  could 
find  no  expression,  Mary  acknowledged  to  her- 
self that  her  husband  sought  the  presence  of  that 
transfigured  woman  who  had  been  the  bride  of 
his  youth,  because  in  that  presence  he  found 
pleasure  and  delight.  All  through  the  fifteen 
years  of  her  life  with  him  she  had  been  conscious 
of  a  lack  of  responsiveness  to  the  cravings  of  her 
affection ;  but  she  had  stilled  the  aching  of  her 
heart  with  the  thought,  not  that  he  mourned  the 
loss  of  Rose,  but  that  a  sentiment  of  self-reproach 
for  having  set  her  aside  in  her  misfortune  had 
raised  a  barrier  in  his  nature  between  himself 
and  the  companion  in  the  wrong  which  he  could 
not  overcome.  And  now  she  knew  that  this  cold- 
ness was  because  he  loved  this  other  as  he  had 
not  loved  her. 

During  those  long  years  she  had  never  been 
quite  happy  because  of  the  invisible  barrier; 
117 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

sometunes  she  had  fancied  herself  wretched. 
Looking  back  to  that  time  now,  she  felt,  in  the 
sharpness  of  her  suffering,  that  she  had  lived  in 
paradise.  Then,  it  was  a  vague,  unsubstantial 
thing  that  held  them  apart ;  now,  it  was  a  beau- 
tiful woman  who  thought  herself  his  wife. 

That  room  had  a  fascination  for  Mrs.  Mar- 
shall ;  she  suffered  when  there,  but  after  leaving 
it  she  hastened  back.  Neither  occupant  seemed 
to  mind  her  presence.  Rose  did  not; — con- 
scious of  no  wrong,  why  should  she?  John  did 
not,  being  apparently  unaware,  as  he  sat  near, 
and  often  with  Rose's  pretty  hand  in  his,  that 
he  was  exceeding  the  part  of  a  courteous  host. 

One  day,  to  Mary,  going  quietly  about  some 
task  in  an  outer  room,  floated  a  voice  in  soft  re- 
proach : 

"John,  do  you  love  me?" 

"Why  Rose,  my  dear  Rose,  don't  you  know 
we  all  love  you?" 

"  'We!'  I  am  not  talking  of  'we,'  but  of 
you.  Do  you  know,  John,  that  you  have  never 
kissed  me  since  the  day  I  came  home?  Is  that 
the  way  a  man  behaves  who  loves  his  wife?" 

And    Mary,    her  heart   faint  with  pain   and 
shame  and  outraged  love,  saw  the  man  succumb 
118 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

to  the  pleading  eyes  and  outstretched  arms.  A 
kiss  like  that,  she  knew,  had  never  been  given 
her.  Alive  with  the  quick  instinct  to  possess 
her  own  she  started  forward,  but  in  a  moment 
turned  and  crept  away  like  a  wounded  creature, 
even  then  excusing  the  one  who  had  pierced  her 
soul. 

"Could  any  man  do  differently?  Only  a 
saint  could  resist  that  loveliness  for  the  sake  of 
a  woman  such  as  I,  worn  with  care  and  on-com- 
ing years." 

She  could  not  breathe  under  that  roof.  Out 
into  the  chill  November  day  she  hastened,  not 
caring  whither.  Heavy  gusts  of  rain  swept 
across  the  sky,  shrouding  the  prairie  in  a  gray 
mist  through  which  the  scattered  trees  loomed 
dimly,  their  bare  boughs  tossing  like  the  spars 
of  a  ship  in  a  laboring  sea.  Conscious  of  little 
but  her  own  thoughts,  she  hurried  on  until  her 
footsteps  were  checked  by  the  surprised  voice  of 
Father  Allen  hastening  from  the  performance  of 
some  errand  of  mercy  to  gain  shelter  from  the 
wintry  storm. 

"Are  you  crazy,  daughter?" 

"It  would  be  better  if  I  were;  it  would  save 
trouble.  If  John  could  have  left  me  at  the 


A  FBRMHOUSiS  DRAMA 

asylum  when  he  brought  Rose  away  how  much 
better  it  v/ould  have  been.  But  this  life  is  kill- 
ing me — I  shall  die,  I  shall  die  and  be  out  of 
their  way.  Rose  will  get  well — do  you  hear 
me,  Father  Allen?  When  I  married  John  I 
prayed  that  Rose,  my  little  cousin  Rose,  might 
never  recover  her  mind.  I  founded  my  hap- 
piness on  her  misfortune.  Now,  I  can  see 
no  happiness  while  we  both  live.  I  am  like  a 
murderer,  Father  Allen !  But  my  punishment 
has  come.  The  Lord  does  not  wait  until  the 
hereafter." 

The  burst  of  passion  ended  in  tears  and  sobs, 
and  the  old  man,  dismounting  from  his  horse, 
led  her  unresistingly  home  and  delivered  her 
into  the  hands  of  the  faithful  black  'Liza,  whose 
ire  had  long  since  been  excited  by  what  she  de- 
scribed to  her  spouse,  Tom,  as  the  "scan'lous 
goings  on  ob  dat  crazy  woman  with  Mistah 
John." 

"I  will  remonstrate  with  Brother  Marshall," 
thought  the  ministerial  visitor.  "It  is  a  pecul- 
iar case,  and  he  means  no  harm,  I  am  sure ;  but, 
really,  it  is  a  very  trying  position  for  Sister  Mar- 
shall, and  he  should  be  more  considerate." 

Mr.  Allen  was  old ;  the  woes  of  women  did 
120 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

not  impress  him  as  they  might  have  done  a 
younger  man,  or  as  they  would  have  impressed 
him  even  now,  perhaps,  had  not  the  many  sor- 
rowful tales  poured  into  his  ears  during  the  forty 
years  of  his  ministry  somewhat  dulled  his  sensi- 
bilities. So  it  happened  that  he  was  not  stern 
and  severe  in  his  remonstrance  with  Mr.  Mar- 
shall when  he  drew  him  aside  that  night  after 
supper,  at  which  Mary  presided,  pale  but  self- 
possessed  once  more. 

"If  Mary  wishes  to  tell  Rose  the  truth  and 
kill  her,  she  may  do  so,  or  you  may  do  it;  I 
will  not,"  said  John.  "While  she  is  here  I 
shall  treat  her  kindly,  whatever  others  may  do. 
Come  up  and  see  her." 

The  old  minister  followed  his  host.  In  that 
radiant  presence  he,  too,  forgot  the  aching  heart 
below  and  thought  only  of  Rose  and  the  wife  of 
his  youth  whose  likeness  he  fancied  he  saw  in 
the  face  before  him. 

That  night  Rose  moaned  in  her  sleep,  and 
Mary,  rising  from  her  couch  near  by,  found  the 
white  hands  clasped  over  the  heart  and  won- 
dered if  the  pangs  of  actual  disease  could  equal 
her  own  pain. 

Next  day  the  wild  storm  continued  and  the 
121 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

minister,  who  had  remained  over  night,  pro- 
longed his  stay.  Mary  wandered  restlessly 
over  the  house,  now  in  the  kitchen  with  'Liza, 
now  talking  lightly  with  Father  Allen  in  the 
pleasant  parlor,  but  never  long  absent  from  the 
spot  up-stairs  where  all  interest  centered. 

"You  look  pale — are  you  not  well?"  said 
Rose  once.  "John,  you  must  not  let  Mary 
work  too  hard  for  me.  Dear  Mary!  How 
should  we  do  without  her?" 

Mary's  answer  was  short  and  brusque  as  she 
hurried  away,  thinking  bitterly  that  John  had 
no  thought  to  spare  for  any  illness  of  hers.  Re- 
penting, presently,  of  her  ungracious  response 
to  a  kind  inquiry,  and  returning,  she  saw  re- 
peated the  loving  scene  of  the  day  before.  John 
was  on  his  knees  by  Rose's  side,  her  arms 
about  his  neck. 

"I  dreamed  of  our  baby  last  night,  John. 
When  I  am  well — I  think  I  shall  be  well  soon — 
I  want  you  to  take  me  down  to  see  where  you 
have  laid  him.  If  I  should  tfie  I  want  my — 
there,  there — hush!  I. know  you  love  me;  I 
know  you  do,  and  I  won't  talk  again  of  leaving 
you.  Poor  John ;  he  has  had  no  one  to  pet  and 
care  for  him,  and  he  wants  his  little  Rose." 
122 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

Half  an  hour  later  'Liza,  intent  on  some  house- 
hold service,  found  Mrs.  Marshall  lying  pros- 
trate on  the  floor  of  an  unused  room.  She  was 
not  unconscious — women  out  of  books  do  not 
faint  when  their  hearts  break — but  nature  had 
reached  a  limit,  and  after  the  storm  of  tears  and 
strong  crying  had  come  a  dullness  of  feeling  that 
was  almost  insensibility. 

'Liza  stooped  to  raise  her,  but  suddenly 
changed  her  plan.  "This  is  Mistah  John's  busi- 
ness, an'  I'll  be  boun'  he  'tends  to  it." 

No  delicately  conscientious  scruples  troubled 
her  mind. 

"Mistah  John's  a  mighty  good  man;  nevah 
had  nothin'  to  say  'gainst  him  befo',  but  it  do 
look  mighty  cur'ous  to  see  him  hangin'  roun'  a 
crazy  woman  that  he  divorced  hisself  from,  an' 
thinkin'  no  mo'  o'  this  hyer  po'  lamb  than  if 
the  ole  elder  hadn't  done  married  'em  fas'  an' 
tight.  'Taint  gwine  on  no  mo',  nohow,  if  this 
chile  kin  stop  it.  Bettah  be  the  crazy  woman 
than  Mis'  Mary  if  somebody  gwine  die  fo'  it." 

And  'Liza,  muttering  ominously,  marched  to 
the  front  room.  There  even  she  paused. 

"Ole  'Liza's  a  mighty  mean  niggah  when  the 
blessed  Lawd's  grace  done  loose  its  hold  on  her, 
123 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

but  the  devil  aint  nevah  gwine  make  her  huht 
Mis'  Rose,  who  looks  like  a  angel  o'  the  'poca- 
lypse,  crazy  or  no  crazy." 

And  so,  very  quietly,  she  called  Mr.  Marshall 
out  of  the  charmed  presence.  Father  Allen,  on 
his  way  upstairs,  was  summoned  also.  Once  in 
that  distant  room  over  the  half  conscious  "Mis' 
Mary,"  'Liza's  wrath  broke  forth. 

"Ole  'Liza's  done  thought  a  heap  o'  you, 
Mistah  John.  I  nevah  reckoned  I'us  trailin'  out 
o'  ole  Kaintuck  aftah  a  man  who  was  gwine  have 
two  wives  undah  one  roof.  Is  yo'  that  stone 
bline  an*  onfeelin',  Mistah  John,  that  yo'  aint 
see  this  blessed  lamb  dyin'  foh  the  love  o'  yo' 
on  'count  o'  the  way  yo'  carryin'  on?  What 
yo'  reckon  the  Lawd  thinkin'  o'  class-leadah 
Mahshall  'bout  now?" 

She  was  on  the  floor  holding  Mary's  head  on 
her  ample  bosom,  loosening  her  dress,  chafing 
her  hands. 

"Yo'  an'  Eldah  Allen,  hyer,  yo'  alls  think 
its  Mis'  Mary's  duty  to  make  it  easy  foh  you 
uns,  an'  aint  a  carin'  if  she  done  make  a  bu'nt 
offering  o'  herself.  Yo'  alls  may  be  mighty 
good  in  yo'  minds,  but  yo'  am'  got  no  kind  o' 
feelin's.  Ary  man  what  wants  his  wife  to  stan' 
124 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

back  an'  be  sweet  an'  purty  wiles  he  honeys  up 
to  a  nurrer  woman  is  boun'  to  get  all  broke 
up  in  he  cackleations.  No  woman,  black  or 
white,  ain'  made  thataway.  Ole  Mis'  Duncan, 
down  in  Kaintuck,  used  to  'low,  '  'Liza,' she 'low, 
'ebery  male  man  that  was  evah  bohned  would  be 
a  Mohmon  or  a  heathen  Tuhk  if  he  wasn't 
'shamed  to  have  folks  know  it.'  Ole  Mis'  hadn't 
had  good  luck  with  her  husban's  an'  was  down 
on  the  sect  pow'ful  ha'd,  but  the  longah  I  live 
the  mo'  I's  'pressed  with  the  'pinion  that  a  man 
what  wants  to  get  into  the  heabenly  kingdom's 
got  to  live  mighty  close  in  this  worl',  mighty 
close." 

John  made  no  attempt  to  check  this  impetu- 
ous tirade,  but  during  its  progress  his  eyes  had 
become  wide  open  to  the  situation.  His  cheeks 
burned  with  shame.  He  took  Mary  from  Liza's 
arms  and  laid  her  upon  a  bed.  The  sound  of 
his  voice  brought  her  to  herself.  Half  dazed 
she  struggled  to  her  feet. 

"Father  Allen,"  said  the  man,  "We, — I 
have  made  a  mistake.  One  wrong  can  not  be 
set  right  by  another.  Mary,  here,  is  my  wife. 
We  will  have  done  with  this  deception,  and  will 


125 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

go  and  tell  Rose,  let  the  consequences  be  what 
they  may." 

Supporting  his  wife,  he  moved  toward  the 
room  across  the  house,  followed  by  the  old  min- 
ister, with  'Liza,  alarmed  now  at  the  result  of 
her  temerity,  bringing  up  the  rear.  Even  at  that 
moment,  Mary,  beginning  to  recover  herself, 
forgot  her  own  grief  and  pleaded  brokenly  for 
delay.  Strong  as  had  been  John  Marshall's  res- 
olution of  a  moment  before,  his  steps  faltered 
as  they  approached  the  door.  A  moment  more 
and  all  paused  involuntarily — arrested  by  the 
words  they  heard  and  the  sight  before  them. 

Standing  by  Rose's  side  was  Mary's  son,  the 
lad  of  twelve.  Coming  into  the  house  he  had 
heard  the  sharp  alarm  of  Aunt  Rose's  bell  and, 
finding  no  one  to  answer  the  call,  had  gone  up 
and  peeped  bashfully  in. 

Rose,  gasping  for  breath  in  sudden  faintness, 
motioned  for  water  and  air.  She  revived  pres- 
ently, the  boy  watching  her,  meanwhile,  with 
wondering  eyes. 

"I  have  heard  you  about  the  house,"  she 
said  faintly  but  with  a  smile ;  ' '  why  have  you 
never  been  to  see  me  before?" 


126 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

"  I  wanted  to  come,  but  they  said  you  must 
not  be  worried,"  stammered  the  lad. 

' '  '  They  '  ?     Who  are  '  they  '  ? 

"Why,  father  and  mother,"  he  answered  in 
surprise. 

"Well,  your  father  and  mother,  whoever  they 
may  be,  should  have  known  that  boys  would  not 
trouble  me;  I  like  them.  And  what  is  your 
name,  child?" 

The  group  at  the  door  heard  this  and  the 
boy's  quick  answer: 

"My  name  is  Richard — Dick,  for  short — 
Richard  Marshall,  you  know." 

Mary  staggered  forward  as  if  to  stop  the 
words  on  the  boy's  lips. 

"Save  her,  Lord!"  she  whispered. 

Father  Allen  held  her  arm.  "Hush!  it  is 
too  late.  It  is  the  will  of  God." 

John  stood  as  one  paralyzed. 

"Richard  Marshall,"  she  repeated  wonder- 
ingly — "the  same  name.  And  are  you  related 
to  Mr.  John  Marshall?  He  did  not  tell  me — " 

"Why,  Mr.  John  Marshall  is  my  father, 
didn't  you  know?  You  must  have  forgotten, 
Aunt  Rose.  And,  of  course,  Mrs.  Mary  Mar- 
shall is  my  mother." 

The  revelation  which  they  had  so  guarded 
127 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

against  had  been  made;   the  shock  so  dreaded 
had  been  given. 

Rose  seemed  to  realize  the  truth  slowly.  Her 
startled  eyes  fell  upon  the  terror-stricken  group 
at  the  doorway.  Gradually,  as  comprehension 
of  the  situation  dawned  upon  her,  a  change 
came  over  the  sweet  face.  It  grew  gray  and 
sharp;  the  brightness  vanished.  She  suddenly 
seemed  no  longer  young. 

' 'Is  it  true,  John?" 

"It  is  true,"  he  whispered. 

"Why,  then,  when  you  had  taken  another  in 
my  place  did  you  deceive  me?  Why  was  I 
allowed  to  think — " 

"Rose,  my  darling,  we  did  it  for  the  best. 
We  thought  you  would  suffer ;  we  had  done  you 
a  wrong  and  were  afraid — Rose,  Rose,  it  was 
for  your  sake.  Can  you  not  forgive?" 

John  Marshall  had  drawn  near  to  the  woman 
on  whom  the  shadow  of  death  now  plainly  lay. 
Mary  crept  to  the  bedside  and  crouched  there 
with  head  bowed  low.  For  a  long  time,  hours  it 
seemed  to  the  spell-bound  watchers,  the  dying 
woman  lay  silent  with  her  hands  clenched  over 
her  heart.  No  sound  was  heard  save  the  dash 
of  rain  upon  the  window  and  the  crackling  of 
the  fire  upon  the  hearth.  At  last  she  spoke : 
128 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

"It  would  be  better  for  us  all  if  I  had  died 
long  ago,  or  if  I  had  never  come  to  myself  in 
the  asylum.  I  have  wanted  to  live,  but  it  does 
not  matter  now.  I  will  go  to  my  baby ;  the 
Lord  will  let  me  have  him  for  my  own  in  heav- 
en. I  thought," — the  words  came  slowly  and 
more  faint — "I  thought  you  were  all  mine,  all 
mine,  and  you  belonged  to  Mary.  I  had  no 
one.  But  John,"  triumphantly — it  was  the  last 
flash  of  the  woman  nature  regardless  of  human 
law  for  love's  sake — "John,  you  loved  me  best 
once;  you  love  me  now,  don't  you,  John?" 

The  man,  with  his  head  bent  upon  the  pillow, 
sobbed  aloud. 

"Always,  my  darling." 

After  a  pause  she  spoke  again : 

"You  did  not  mean  to  hurt.  I  have  been 
happy — happy.  Kiss  me,  John." 

The  face  brightened  with  a  strange  light. 

"Mary,  don't  cry.  I — am — going — to— my 
— baby.  Do— you — see?  Mary,  forgive ." 

Then  the  blue  eyes  looked  on  death. 

A  pale  gleam  of  sunshine,  the  first  for  days, 
broke  through  the  clouds  and  fell  upon  the  still 
face.  Father  Allen,  with  uplifted  hands, 
pered  softly,  "Let  us  pray." 


129 


A  FARMHOUSE  DRAMA 

Six  months  later,  Father  Allen  and  the  young 
pastor,  driving  across  the  prairie,  stopped  again 
at  the  Marshall  home.  Only  the  wife  was 
within.  In  answer  to  a  whispered  inquiry  from 
the  older  man,  as  he  departed,  she  said  gently, 
but  with  an  unconscious  touch  of  defiance  in  her 
speech:  "I  am  happy,  of  course.  He  is  mine, 
now — all  mine.  One  does  not  fear  the  dead." 

It  was  not  quite  a  look  of  peace  that  filled  her 
eyes  as  they  left  her  gazing  wistfully  down  the 
length  of  the  level  road. 

A  mile  beyond,  at  the  other  side  of  the 
broad  prairie  farm,  was  the  little  cottage  where 
the  dead  Rose  had  spent  the  first  brief  months 
of  her  married  life.  It  had  never  been  occu- 
pied since  by  strangers.  A  marble  shaft  gleamed 
through  the  trees  near  by.  Against  the  fence  sur- 
rounding this  leaned  John  Marshall,  absorbed  in 
contemplation  of  the  two  flower-grown  mounds 
within.  His  horse,  in  the  road  at  a  little  dis- 
tance, neighed  impatiently,  but  the  watcher 
gave  no  heed. 

"It  seemed  to  me  expedient,"  said  Father 
Allen,  half  to  himself,  as  they  drove,  unnoticed, 
by;  "but  I  may  have  been  wrong.  The  Lord 
knows." 

130 


THE   SOLUTION    OF  A  TEXT 

THERE  is  a  conviction  among  certain  educated 
that  with  increased  intellectual  culture  comes  a 
keener  susceptibility  to  pleasure  and  pain.  Is  it  so? 
Turn  anywhere  among  the  "  short  and  simple  annals  of 
the  poor,"  and  we  can  find  passion,  and  romance,  and  trag- 
edy. They  do  not  call  these  incidents  of  life  by  ouch 
names  ;  they  only  live  them.  When  love  or  suffering — 
and  what  else  is  life? — comes  to  us,  we  can  analyze  our 
emotions,  and  label  them  with  high-sounding  words  ;  we 
can  tell  of  them  in  verse,  or  in  language  compared  to- 
which  theirs  is  but  an  inarticulate  cry.  Are  our  feelings, 
therefore,  deeper? 

"Slave!  Yassum,  an'  sot  free  by  de  prock- 
elmation.  Hab  I  lib  in  dis  yer  house  so  long 
an'  yo'  nebah  know  I'se  done  been  a  slave?" 
And  Aunty  Smith,  the  African  dame,  who  rep- 
resented that  domestic  institution  known  as  "our 
girl,"  gave  the  fire  a  vigorous  poke. 

"Tell  yo'  'bout  it?  Dar  ain't  nuffin'  to  tell 
wuth  the  while  for  yo'  to  listen.  An'  ole  nig- 
gah  ain't  got  no  hist'ry — dat's  for  white  folkses. 


THE   SOLUTION  OF  A  TEXT 

Didn't  I  heah  yo'  a  readin'  'bout  de  hist'ry  ob 
Jawge  Washin'ton — an'  den  talkin'  to  me? 
Sho!" 

The  black  lips  parted  over  broad  white  teeth 
in  a  quick  laugh,  but  no  smile  touched  the  sol- 
emn eyes  given  to  her  race  by  generations  of 
bondage. 

"Time  to  be  a-takin'  yo'  quinine,  honey; 
bettah  take  it  mighty  reg'lah  ef  yo'  specks  to 
get  dem  chills  bruck.  'Trouble?'  Yas,  in- 
deedy,  I's  had  heaps  ob  trouble,  but  I  nebah 
did  go  roun'  talkin'  'bout  it.  Makes  mattahs 
wuss  to  be  forebber  a-talkin'  an'  a-talkin'  ob 
yer  trials.  An'  I's  allus  noticed  dis  yer  fac', 
dat  mos'  people  likes  to  tell  deir  own  'sperience 
'stiddy  o'  hearin'  'bout  yours.  Co'se  I  has  to 
tell  somebody  an'  I  tells  de  Lawd,  but  'pears 
like  de  Lawd's  a  long  way  off,  sometimes.  Ef 
I  could  be  shore  dat  He  allus  heard  a  pore  nig- 
gah  I  couldn't  nebah  grieve  no  mo'." 

"Has  doubt  seized  the  believers?"  I  thought. 
"If  the  rest  of  us  were  sure  of  that  one  thing 
what  burdens  would  be  lifted ! ' ' 

"I's  done  been  mahied  fo'  times.  Yassum ! 
By  de  preachah  ebry  time;  dey  couldn't  hab 
no  foolishness  wid  dis  chile.  My  first  husband's 
132 


THE    SOLUTION  OF  A  TEXT 

name  was  Caesah  Mahshall.  He  b' longed  to 
Kunnel  Mahshall,  who  at  dat  time  was  courtin' 
my  mastah's  daughtah,  Miss  Betty,  an'  ob 
course  Caesah  he  spen'  a  heap  ob  time  'round 
dar.  Caesah  he  a  likely  boy,  an'  all  de  gals 
tort  dey  gwine  git  him.  But  laws!  I  knowed 
he  didn't  keer  for  none  o'  dem  niggahs.  I  did 
keep  a  mighty  keen  eye,  dough,  on  Lize.  She 
a  yaller  gal  allus  a-rollin'  her  eyes  an'  tossin' 
her  head,  an'  thinkin'  herself  good  as  white 
folkses;  one  o'  dese  yer  sly  kind,  too,  a  say  in' 
flatterin'  things  dat  make  a  man  think  she  a- 
dyin'  for  lub  o'  him.  I  gib  her  mighty  little 
chance  to  try  any  of  her  sassy  tricks  on  Caesah. 
Men's  dat  pow'ful  vain — you  des  know  it's  so, 
honey — dey  swallahs  ebry  soft  an'  sugary  speech 
ob  de  female  sect  asef  'twar  de  libin'  trufe.  But 
Caesah  he  wouldn't  hab  no  one  but  des'  me. 
He  sayed  I  was  like  Solomon's  wife  dat  de 
Bible  tells  ob,  'black  but  comely.'  I  ax  de 
preachah  once  ef  Solomon  was  a  cullud  gemlan. 
He  look  scared,  an'  sayed  he  couldn't  'splain 
dat  tex'  to  an  ig'nant  pusson  like  me;  sayed  it 
didn't  mean  what  it  sayed,  but  was  a  yallerglory 
'bout  de  chu'ch.  Preachahs  don't  know  ebry 
thing  more'n  we'uns,  an'  what's  de  use  for  twis' 
133 


THE   SOLUTION  OF  A  TEXT 

de  words  ob  de  good  book  diff'rent  from  what 
dey  is? 

"Well,  Caesah  an'  me  we  done  got  mahied, 
an'  lived  in  a  little  cabin  neah  my  mastah's 
house,  cause  I  had  to  wo'k  hahd  waitin'  on  ole 
mistis  an'  de  young  ladies.  Dey  wore  heaps 
ob  fine  muslins  an'  lawns  in  dem  days  an'  no 
one  could  do  de  washin'  an'  i'nin'  to  suit  dem 
but  me.  But  I  had  a  little  time  in  my  own 
house  an'  Caesah  he  come  often.  I  was  dat 
happy  I  went  roun'  singin'  from  mawnin'  twel 
night;  neber  tort  'bout  the  nex'  day  an'  what 
it  might  bring  fo'th.  Ef  I  was  too  happy  with 
de  things  ob  dis  worl',  de  Lawd  knows  my 
heart  been  heavy  dis  many  yeahs  to  pay  foh  it. 
'Pears  like  all  dat's  happen  since  has  des'  teched 
de  outside  ob  my  feelin's  an'  lef  all  de  heavenly 
sweetness  ob  dat  time  shet  off  to  itself. 

"De  time  went  by  twel  one  mawnin'  in  de 
summah  Caesah  he  agwine  to  come  an'  tote  de 
chile  ober  in  de  hills  to  a  camp-meetin'.  She 
was  two  munce  old,  an'  I  hadn't  neber  had  her 
'way  from  home  befo'.  Dar's  no  tellin'  how 
proud  we  bofe  was  ob  dat  baby. 

"Dat  mawnin'  I  dress  her  an'  I  waited.  De 
people  roun'  de  place  dey  get  ready  an'  go. 
134 


THE    SOLUTION  OF  A  TEXT 

None  ob  dem  stopped  to  talk,  but  I  'membered 
aft' wards  dey  look  mighty  queah  at  me.  Lize, 
dat  yaller  gal  I'se  tellin'  yo'  ob,  she  run  back 
an'  hug  de  baby.  Yo'  pore  crittah,  I  thought, 
yo'd  gib  all  dat  finery  for  sich  a  honey-drop ! 

"An"  I  waited.  Plenty  things  might  ob  hap- 
pen for  to  keep  Caesah  away,  so  I  sang  Rosy  to 
sleep.  Den  somehow  I  'gan  to  'member  de 
looks  an'  de  whispers  dat  I  hadn't  noticed  at  de 
time,  an'  it  seem  to  grow  dark,  dough  de  sun 
was  a-shinin' ;  an'  de  chills  crep  ober  me.  Ole 
mistis's  mockin'-bird  up  at  de  big  house,  how 
it  did  sing!  I  'spise  a  mockin'-bird  eber  sence. 
I  waited — an'  aft'  while  ole  mistis  come  walkin' 
down  the  paf.  She  was  bawn  an'  raised  in  de 
Nawf,  was  ole  mistis,  an'  neber  'peared  to  like 
de  black  people.  She  hab  berry  sharp  eyes — 
'bout  de  color  ob  de  blade  ob  a  new  razah, — an' 
when  she  come  close  an'  look  at  me  I  felt  as  ef 
dey  cut  me  clean  froo.  She  hab  a  soft  voice, 
an"  dar  was  a  little  smile  on  her  face  when  she 
tole  me — she  tole  me — she  stretch  up  an'  pick 
some  yaller  roses  from  de  bush  dat  grow'd  ober 
de  do',  an'  she  say  dat  if  I  'spect  to  git  to 
camp-meetin'  I  better  be  agwine;  dat  I'd  haf  to 
pack  de  chile  de  whole  way,  for  Caesah  he  fur 
135 


THE   SOLUTION  OF  A  TEXT 

'nough  off  now.  She  tole  me  he  been  sold  down 
Souf,  whar  he'd  be  'bliged  to  pick  cotton  an' 
git  ober  some  ob  his  fine  notions. 

"When  she  were  gone  'way  I  tore  de  yaller 
rosebush  down  an'  tromp  it  undah  my  feet. 
Aftah  dat  for  a  spell  I  don't  rightly  'member 
what  happened.  Dey  tole  me  dat  Caesah  he 
try  to  'scape  frum  de  tradahs ;  dat  dey  chase 
him  wid  de  dogs,  an'  when  de  men  tort  he  gwine 
to  cross  de  ribah  dey  done  shoot  him  dead. 
Heabenly  Mastah !  an'  I  lubed  him  so ! 

"I  lib  through  it  all.  Many  a  woman,  black 
or  white,  could  tell  yo'  dat  she  goes  on  a-libin'  an' 
every  night  a-prayin'  de  Lawd  her  soul  to  take. 

"I  foun'  out  dat  Kunnel  Mahshall  he  felt  so 
mighty  pore  dat  he  had  to  sell  some  of  his 
people.  De  Kunnel  he  one  o'  de  real  Ken- 
tucky gemlen ;  great  man  to  be  a-bettin'  an'  a- 
hoss  racin'.  He'd  loss  a  heap  of  money  on  his 
fas'  hoss,  'kase  it  wasn't  so  fas'  as  some  o'  de 
rest,  an'  he  an'  Miss  Betty  gwine  to  be  mahied ; 
so  ob  co'se  he  must  hab  money — an'  he  sold 
Caesah. 

"Den  Rosy  died;  an'  when  I  look  at  her  in 
de  little  coffin  I's  dat  glad  I  couldn't  cry.     I's 
glad,  honey,  'kase  she  nebber  hab  no  trouble. 
136 


THE   SOLUTION  OF  A  TEXT 

"Well,  de  time  go  on,  an'  diff'rent  men 
dey  ax  me  to  marry,  but  I  tole  dem  to  go  off 
'bout  deir  business.  But  laws !  a  man  cain't 
b'lieve  a  woman  don't  keer  nuffin  fer  him !  So 
dey  kephangin'  roun'  twel  Mistis  she  say  I  mus' 
marry.  Mistis  she  hab  a  thrifty  turn  an'  wanted 
all  her  people  to  marry  an'  raise  chillen,  kase 
chillen  proputty  in  dem  days.  Bless  de  Lawd  ! 
I  didn't  hab  no  mo'  chillen  fer  her  to  count  as  I 
do  de  pigs. 

"At  las'  I  mahied  Big  Tom  to  git  shet  ob 
him,  but  I  done  miss  it,  fer  shore  as  yo'  lib,  dat 
crittah  tuck  de  kinsumption.  He  war  de  mos' 
misable,  no-'count  niggah  I  'member  to  hab 
knowed.  I  waited  on  dat  man  night  an'  day, 
an'  like  to  run  my  laigs  off;  tried  to  be  as  good 
to  him  as  ef  he  were  de  light  ob  my  eyes ;  but 
nuffin  pleased  him  no  ways.  One  day  he  shied 
a  flat-i'n  at  me  an'  cut  a  gashober  mylef  year. 
De  scar's  dah  yit.  I's  pow'ful  mad  den,  an' 
says  I,  'Ole  man,  ye  kin  cough  yo'  livah  an' 
lights  up  foh  all  me,  an'  de  soonah  de  bettah.' 

"  'Bout  dat  time  mastah  done  send  him  down 

de    ribah    on    some    business.     Tom    he    were 

mastah's  right  han',  an'  mastah  didn't  pay  no 

'tention  to  de  kinsumption  dat  he  say  ailded 

137 


THE   SOLUTION  OF  A  TEXT 

him.  Well,  de  steamboat  blowed  up,  an'  I 
s'pose  Tom  done  get  blowed  up  too,  for  I's 
neber  seed  him  since. 

"Aft'  dat,  a  spell,  I  mahied  Joe,  'kase  he  was 
lively,  an'  kept  us  all  a-laughin'  with  his  jokes. 
He  played  de  fiddle  like  an  angel,  too,  an' 
when  I  sot  an'  listened,  seemed  as  ef  I  could  see 
beyond  the  stahs  clar  into  de  New  Jerusalem. 
But  Joe  didn't  have  good  jedgment  'bout  some 
mattahs.  De  wah  was  gwine  on  by  dis  time, 
an'  nuffin'  would  do  but  Joe  he  mus'  go  with 
Kunnel  Mahshall  down  into  Jawgy  for  to  jine  de 
'federate  ahmy.  De  Kunnel  was  his  mastah, 
but  he  didn't  hab  to  go.  He  was  gwine  to  be 
a  drummah,  an'  was  dat  heedless  he  nevah 
'fleeted  dad  he  was  on  de  wrong  side;  reckon 
he  nevah  s'posed  dar'd  be  anything  else  but 
playin'  on  de  fife  an'  drum.  In  de  berry  fust 
skrimmage  dey  had,  Joe  was  killed.  Might  a 
knowed  he'd  hab  bad  luck,  an'  I  tole  him  so 
'fore  he  went.  Joe  had  a  good  heart,  dough, 
an'  I  don't  'spect  de  Lawd  will  be  hahd  on  him 
for  habin'  been  bawn  so  giddy. 

"Aftah  while,  when  de  prockelmation  set  de 
culled  people  free,  de  family  bruck  up,  an'  I 
went  up  to  Louieville  for  to  get  washin'  an  i'nin'. 
138 


THE   SOLUTION  OF  A  TEXT 

Dah  I  met  Mistah  Smith  at  pra'r-meetin'.  He 
were  pow'ful  in  pra'r,  an'  he  seem  struck  with 
my  'pearance  (I  had  on  my  violent  dress  for 
de  fust  time).  At  de  second  pra'r-meetin'  he 
tole  me  he'd  had  a  hebenly  vision  which  sayed 
I  was  to  be  his  second  pahtnah.  Co'se  I 
couldn't  stan'  out  'gainst  de  will  ob  de  Lawd, 
an'  dat's  why  I's  now  Mrs.  Smith.  His  name 
was  Obadiah,  but  he  'quested  me  for  to  call  him 
Mistah  Smith;  sayed  it  'corded  bettah  wid  de 
condition  ob  de  woman  to  be  'spectful  to  de 
husban' ;  man,  he  say,  bein'  so  s'perior. 

"Mistah  Smith  an'  me  we  done  git  along 
comf'tably  twel  he  died,  which  was  des  befo'  I 
come  heah.  I  nebah  had  no  fault  to  fine,  'cept 
dat  he  did  talk  too  much  'bout  de  fust  Mrs. 
Smith.  I's  had  a  heap  ob  trouble  wid  dat  boy 
ob  hers,  but  I's  tried  to  do  my  juty  by  him.  I's 
whipped  him  once  a  week  reg'lah,  'kase  he's 
pow'ful  bad,  but  he's  mos'  too  big  for  me  now, 
an'  I'se  'fraid  de  debbil  '11  ketch  him. 

"What' 11  I  do  in  hebben  wid  so  many  hus- 
ban's?  I  won't  hab  but  one,  bless  de  Lawd, 
an'  dat's  Caesah.  Tom  he  won't  be  dah;  Joe 
he'll  be  so  tuck  up  wid  de  harps  an'  de  banjos 


139 


THE   SOLUTION  OF  A  TEXT 

dat  he  won't  think  ob  nuffin'  else;   an'  Mistah 
Smith  can  'joy  hisself  wid  dat  fust  wife. 

"  I'll  hab  Caesah  an'  I'll  hab  Rosy,  an'  we'll 
hab  a  little  mansion  with  a  passion  vine  an' 
roses  roun'  de  do' ;  an'  we'll  be  happy  for  eb- 
ber  an'  ebber.  Glory!  Glory!" 

The  light  that  shone  on  the  black  face  as  she 
turned  away  was  a  token  of  faith  and  hope ;  an 
outward  sign  of  an  inward  grace  the  whitest  of 
us  seldom  wear. 

Floating  back  to  the  room,  like  an  echo  of  a 
thought,  came  a  triumphant  voice : 

"Dah  ebahlasting  spring  abides, 
An'  nevah  fading  flowahs," 


I4O 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

MRS.  ABNER  HALE  and  Mrs.  Silas  Ad- 
ams walked  slowly  out  Main  street  after 
the  regular  Thursday  meeting  of  the  Branchville 
Ladies'  Literary  Circle.  When  these  ladies 
organized  their  society  they  decided  to  call  it  a 
circle  instead  of  a  club,  because  the  latter  word 
sounded  "so  mannish,  somehow." 

"That  was  a  beautiful  paper  of  Alfaretta  Mil- 
ler's on  theosophy,"  Mrs.  Hale  remarked,  in 
rather  a  questioning  way. 

"Oh,  lovely!"  said  her  companion,  in  the 
tone  women  use  when  they  wish  to  be  agreeable, 
no  matter  what  their  real  thoughts  may  be  con- 
cerning the  matter  under  discussion.  "Yes, 
Alfaretta  can  write  on  most  any  subject.  She's 
got  a  good  mind.  She's  a  credit  to  our  Circle." 

"What  idea  did  you  get  from  the  paper?" 
pursued  Mrs.  Hale,  hesitatingly,  and  then,  with 
an  impetuous  outburst,   "Martha  Adams,  what 
is  theosophy,  anyway?" 
141 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

"Land!  Mrs.  Hale,  don't  ask  me.  I  have 
n't  the  faintest  idea,  and  never  expect  to  have, 
if  I  should  hear  a  dozen  papers.  Alfaretta 
wanted  me  to  be  prepared  to  discuss  the  subject 
and  loaned  me  a  book  to  read  up  in,  but  it 
made  me  dizzy.  I  did  copy  a  sentence  or  two 
out,  though,  that  I  meant  to  recite  off  at  the 
proper  time,  just  to  show  that  I  wasn't  ignorant, 
but  I  forgot  it.  To  tell  the  truth,  I  kind  of  lost 
track  of  what  she  was  saying  in  studying  out 
just  how  the  trimming  was  fixed  on  Jennie  Wil- 
son's new  silk  waist.  I'm  making  one  for  my 
Sis,  you  know.  Near  as  I  can  get  at  it,  from 
all  I've  read  and  heard,  theosophy  is  a  sort  of 
spiritualism  that  the  heathen  believe  in  and  that 
our  folks  have  taken  up  out  of  curiosity — sort  of 
a  moony,  spooky  thing,  with  spheres  and  ma- 
hatmas — whatever  they  are — and  astral  bodies, 
and  ever-so- many-times- on-earth,  and  all  that 
kind  of  foolishness.  I  ain't  sure  that  it's  quite 
the  thing  to  talk  about  in  our  Circle.  Some 
that's  not  so  well  balanced  as  you  and  me  might 
be  influenced  by  it.  Not  but  what  there's  deep 
'things  that  it  would  be  real  satisfying  to  know 
about.  Sometimes  I  think  there's  something 


142 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

genuine   about    spiritualism — the    rapping   and 
slate-writing  kind." 

Mrs.  Hale  looked  at  the  speaker  with  an  ex- 
pression of  severe  disapproval,  but  had  no  chance 
to  utter  a  word  of  protest  before  that  voluble 
lady  began  again. 

"Yes,  I  do,  Mrs.  Hale.  Lemme  tell  you 
something. ' '  Here  Mrs.  Adams's  voice  was  low- 
ered to  a  confidential  whisper,  although  no  one 
was  within  sight  or  hearing.  "The  most  of  it's 
foolishness,  I'll  allow,  and  there's  a  lot  of  hum- 
buggery  about  it,  but  there's  queer,  unaccount- 
able things,  too.  Cousin  Jim  Lawson's  wife 
was  telling  me  one  of  'em  the  last  time  I  was  in 
Indianapolis.  She'd  been  to  visit  a  slate-writing 
medium  and  had  had  a  communication  from  her 
mother,  who'd  died  suddenly  not  long  before 
when  she  was  away  from  home  on  a  visit.  Cousin 
Jim's  wife  couldn't  reconcile  herself  to  having 
no  last  word,  and  so  she  went  to  this  medium, 
who,  it  seems,  is  no  common  person,  but  a  real 
lady.  She'd  always  had  the  power,  but  only  a 
few  knew  about  it,  and  she  never  thought  of 
earning  money  by  it  until  after  she  was  left  a 
widow  and  had  to  do  something  to  make  a  liv- 
ing for  herself  and  little  girl."  . 
143 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

"Well" — and  here  the  whisper  grew  more 
impressive — "Cousin  Jim's  wife,  she  went  and 
never  told  her  name  or  anything,  and  right  in- 
side of  that  double  slate,  with  the  medium's  hands 
laid  flat  on  top  in  plain  sight,  came  a  message 
signed  by  her  mother,  Eunice  Bascom,  telling 
her  she  (Mrs.  Bascom)  was  very  happy,  was 
glad  to  have  the  opportunity  to  talk  to  her  and 
urge  her  to  be  reconciled,  and  also  to  tell  her  to 
give  her  (the  mother's)  cashmere  dress  and  her 
wrappers  and  aprons  to  Jane,  the  other  daughter, 
and  to  keep  the  new  black  silk  and  the  fur  collar 
herself.  Cousin  Jim's  wife  said  you  could  a' 
knocked  her  down  with  a  feather.  The  thought 
had  come  to  her  several  times  that  that  would  be 
a  fair  way  to  divide  their  mother's  things,  seeing 
she  had  so  much  more  use  for  dressy  clothes 
than  Jane,  who  lived  in  the  country  and  never 
went  anywhere,  but  she  hadn't  had  the  clothes 
in  mind  that  day  at  all,  and  had  no  notion  any- 
thing would  be  said  about  them.  It  was  a  real 
comfort  to  her,  though,  to  have  what  you  might 
call  official  authority  for  disposing  of  the  gar- 
ments, for  she'd  been  a  little  afraid  Jane  would 
be  inclined  to  complain;  so  she  bought  the  slate 


144 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

with  the  writing  on  and  took  it  home  with  her. 
Now,  Mrs.  Hale,  wasn't  that  remarkable?" 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  protested  that  lady  in  re- 
ply, "  that  I  shouldn't  like  to  have  my  mother 
come  back  from  the  other  world  to  talk  about 
clothes,"  but  as  she  was  going  on  to  express 
her  fixed  objection  to  such  doings,  such  unholy 
tampering  with  sacred  things,  as  she  considered 
it,  they  reached  Mrs.  Adams's  gate,  and  that 
sprightly  person,  after  unavailingly  urging  her 
companion  to  enter,  hurried  in,  saying  she  would 
sew  a  little  on  Sis's  waist  before  dark. 

Mrs.  Hale,  who  was  not  really  a  townswoman 
at  all,  but  a  farmer's  wife,  and  lived  nearly  a  mile 
beyond  the  point  where  the  highway  ceased  to 
be  a  street  and  became  the  pike,  went  leisurely 
on  her  way  over  the  quiet  country  road,  saying 
to  herself,  with  a  shake  of  the  head,  that  Martha 
Adams  was  a  good  soul,  but  too  ready  to  be- 
lieve everything  she  heard.  Then  her  mind 
drifted  to  other  matters.  She  always  remem- 
bered her  wandering  thoughts  of  that  afternoon, 
and  sometimes  spoke  of  them  long  after,  as 
showing  how  little  foreknowledge  has  the  hu- 
man mind.  She  thought  complacently  of  her 
own  paper  on  the  French  Revolution,  which  she 
10  145 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

had  read  before  the  Circle  the  week  previous. 
She  was  sixty  years  old  and  had  never  done 
such  a  thing  before,  and  it  was  a  great  event  in 
her  life,  but  she  told  her  husband,  when  it  was 
over,  that  she  didn't  see  but  what  her  piece  was 
"full  as  good  as  the  average."  She  owned 
frankly  that  she  got  the  most  of  it  from  the  en- 
cyclopedia and  the  rest  from  an  old  magazine 
belonging  to  Joe,  "  but,  of  course,  they  couldn't 
expect  me  to  write  a  thing  like  that  out  of  my 
own  head,"  she  said,  "  and  if  I  used  the  same 
language,  why,  what's  the  difference?  I'm  sure 
I  couldn't  have  said  it  as  well,  and,  anyway,  it 
was  all  new  to  the  Circle." 

But  the  Circle  soon  passed  into  the  back- 
ground on  this  autumn  afternoon,  and  Joe,  never 
far  from  the  front  in  the  mother's  mind,  occu- 
pied her  thoughts  exclusively — Joe,  the  son  of 
her  old  age,  she  called  him.  He  was  a  young 
civil  engineer,  and  through  the  influence  of  an 
instructor  in  the  school  of  which  he  was  a  grad- 
uate had  had  the  good  fortune,  as  he  considered 
it,  to  be  made  one  of  a  government  surveying 
party  to  Alaska  that  summer,  starting  in  April. 
He  was  on  his  way  home  now.  A  letter  had 
come  from  Seattle  saying  he  had  left  the  party, 
146 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

which  was  coming  east  over  the  northern  route, 
and  was  about  to  go  down  the  coast  in  a  small 
sailing  vessel,  whose  captain  had  happened 
to  take  a  liking  to  him.  He  did  this  because  it 
was  inexpensive  and  he  wanted  a  glimpse  of  Cal- 
ifornia, not  knowing  when  he  should  visit  the 
western  coast  again.  He  must  have  reached 
San  Francisco  by  this  time,  his  mother  reflected, 
and  another  letter  was  nearly  due,  though  pos- 
sibly he  would  not  think  it  worth  while  to  write, 
he  was  coming  so  soon  himself.  Mrs.  Hale's 
fond  heart  beat  faster  at  the  very  thought  of 
seeing  her  boy  once  more,  and  as  she  looked 
about  her  over  the  fields,  golden  with  the  Sep- 
tember sunshine,  the  sight,  dear  from  long  asso- 
ciation, seemed  to  take  on  a  new  charm.  It  was 
a  beautiful  world,  she  thought,  not  realizing  that 
it  was  the  contentment  of  her  soul  that  made  the 
Indiana  landscape  doubly  fair. 

She  entered  the  door  of  her  home  with  a  song 
in  her  heart  and  upon  her  lips.  She  put  her 
bonnet  carefully  away,  and,  with  a  look  at  the 
clock  to  assure  herself  that  she  had  yet  a  few 
minutes  before  it  was  time  to  prepare  supper  for 
Abner  and  the  hired  man,  she  sat  down  to  rest 
and  to  glance  at  the  paper  she  had  brought 
147 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

from  the  post-office.  She  opened  the  sheet  and 
looked  over  it  with  mild  interest.  What  fate 
turned  her  eyes  straight  upon  the  obscure  para- 
graph that  in  times  of  much  news  would  have 
found  no  space  in  the  inland  paper?  Thus 
blindly  and  unsuspectingly  are  we  led  into  the 
tragedies  of  our  lives.  It  was  a  brief  dispatch, 
dated  at  San  Francisco,  and  mentioning  the  sink- 
ing of  the  schooner  Yakima  through  being  run 
down  by  the  steamship  Montana.  The  Yakima 
was  bound  for  San  Francisco  with  a  cargo  of 
coal,  and  filled  and  sank  so  rapidly  after  the  col- 
lision that  only  one  person  on  board  escaped. 
The  Montana  put  out  her  boats  and  picked  up 
one  sailor,  who  reported  that  in  addition  to  the 
crew  the  schooner  had  had  on  board  one  passen- 
ger, a  man  from  Indiana  named  Hale.  The  cause 
of  the  accident  would  be  investigated  and  the 
responsibility  fixed,  said  the  dispatch. 

The  mind  comprehends  slowly  the  full  mean- 
ing of  death  when  a  loved  one  has  gone.  It  is 
only  as  weeks  and  months  pass  that  the  loss,  the 
desolation,  the  awful  loneliness  are  realized. 
Sitting  with  her  paper  in  her  hand  that  after- 
noon, Mrs.  Hale  saw  her  husband  coming 
through  the  orchard,  and  her  first  conscious 
148 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

thought  was  one  of  pity  for  him  that  he  had  no 
son.  Concerning  her  own  bereavement  she  had, 
as  yet,  no  sensation;  the  sudden  blow  had 
made  her  numb.  She  watched  him  come  slowly 
and  heavily  through  the  gate  and  up  the  walk — 
a  gray-haired  man,  with  bent  shoulders,  who 
had  not  kept  his  youthful  elasticity  as  had  his 
wife. 

"He  has  not  many  years  of  grief  to  bear, ' '  she 
said,  as  she  went  out  to  him,  bearing  the  mes- 
sage of  evil. 

The  history  of  the  next  few  days  she  could 
hardly  have  told  later.  She  went  about  her 
household  tasks  mechanically,  for  the  living 
must  eat  and  drink,  though  the  best  loved  lie 
dead,  but  her  mind  wandered  far  and  scarce 
knew  what  her  hands  did.  There  was  a  sending 
of  telegraphic  messages,  a  writing  of  letters  and 
the  gathering  of  all  the  information  that  could 
be  secured,  but  this  was  little  more  than  the  first 
newspaper  dispatch  had  contained.  The  Yakima 
had  sunk,  only  one  person  on  board  had  been 
picked  up  at  the  time — which  was  just  after 
midnight  on  the  2Oth  of  September — and  the 
sea  being  rough  that  night  there  was  no  proba- 
149 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

bility,  even  had  any  one  been  overlooked  in  the 
careful  search  made,  that  a  survivor  could  have 
remained  afloat  till  morning. 

Hope,  catching  at  the  faintest  chance,  died 
hard,  but  when  weeks  went  by  and  brought  no 
word  Joseph  Hale's  death  was  accepted  as  a 
certainty.  His  mother  put  on  a  black  gown; 
his  father  went  to  and  fro  about  his  work  with  a 
look  that  made  the  neighbors  say  he  was  aging 
fast ;  they  tried  to  bear  their  affliction  with  the 
fortitude  and  resignation  becoming  to  their 
Christian  professions,  but  they  knew  that  for 
them  the  zest  of  life  had  passed  with  their  son's 
going,  and  that  the  years  to  come  must  be  en- 
dured, not  enjoyed.  They  read  the  grief  in 
each  other's  eyes,  but  spoke  little  of  it,  Abner 
being  taciturn  at  all  times,  and  his  wife,  like  so 
many  men  and  women  of  the  Anglo-Saxon  race, 
never  having  learned  to  express  her  deepest 
emotions  in  words. 

One  day  in  October  services  in  memory  of  the 
young  man  were  held  in  the  Presbyterian  church. 
Sympathy  with  the  bereaved  parents  was  deep, 
and  the  curious,  but  not  unkindly,  desire  of 
their  friends  to  see  how  they  were  affected  by 
the  remarks  of  the  minister,  and  how  they  bore 
150 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

their  sorrow,  caused  the  emotion  of  a  young  wo- 
man near  the  door  to  go  unnoticed.  She  was 
Nellie  Hamilton,  a  teacher  in  one  of  the  village 
schools.  She  and  Joe  Hale  had  known  each 
other  all  their  lives,  and  were  on  such  friendly 
footing  and  so  free  from  self-consciousness  that 
no  one  had  thought  of  them  as  lovers.  She  had 
been  aware  for  a  long  time  of  the  state  of  her 
own  affections,  but  it  was  only  a  few  days  be- 
fore his  departure  that  Joe  had  begun  to  learn 
where  his  heart  belonged.  She  had  seen  the 
awakening  in  his  eyes ;  she  had  felt  it  in  the 
subtle  change  of  manner ;  she  had  read  his  secret 
through  the  prescience  of  her  own  love,  and  her 
heart  leaped  in  her  bosom  and  was  glad.  He 
had  not  spoken  before  he  went  away,  but  she 
did  not  feel  the  less  secure,  for  she  saw  also  that 
he  had  not  discovered  her  secret,  and  was  in 
that  state  of  doubt  where  he  feared  to  test  his 
fate.  Maiden-like,  and  with  a  touch  of  coquet- 
ry, she  had  refrained  from  betraying  a  hint  of 
the  truth,  coyly  holding  back,  confident  in  the 
knowledge  that  when  she  chose  to  offer  a  sign 
he  would  come.  Not  long  since  had  come  a 
letter  telling  her  that  on  his  return  he  had  a 
question  to  ask — one  which  he  had  "always 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

thought  a  man  ought  to  be  brave  enough  to  put 
to  a  woman  face  to  face,  and  not  by  letter."  A 
reply  would  not  have  reached  him  had  she  writ- 
ten it,  and  now  he  was  dead ;  he  was  dead  and 
would  never  know;  was  dead  and  she  had  not 
the  right  to  weep  for  him,  but  must  go  about 
with  calm  face,  for  she  had  not  let  him  speak, 
and  he  was  not  hers  in  the  sight  of  the  world. 
She  envied  his  mother  the  liberty  of  tears,  of 
outspoken  grief  and  of  unsmiling  face.  Life  was 
bitter. 

The  days  went  on  drearily.  Mrs.  Hale  neg- 
lected the  Ladies'  Circle,  the  Missionary  Society 
and  all  the  various  interests  that  had  made  her 
social  world,  and,  shut  in  her  rural  home, 
brooded  over  her  loss.  October  passed  and 
November  came,  with  heavier  rains  and  more 
lowering  clouds,  it  seemed,  than  ever  Novem- 
ber had  had  before.  Thanksgiving  day  ap- 
proached, and  Mrs.  Hale  grew  restless.  On 
that  day  it  had  been  the  custom  to  invite  to 
dinner  all  the  kinfolk  living  thereabout,  but  this 
time  she  and  her  husband  could  not  make  fes- 
tivity for  themselves  or  others.  When  the 
morning  came  Mrs.  Hale  arose  and  went  about 
her  tasks  with  an  unusual  look  of  determination. 

152 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

"Father,"  she  said  to  her  husband  at  break- 
fast, "I  don't  feel  as  if  I  could  go  to  our  church 
this  morning,  and  I  am  going  into  the  city.  I 
know  you  don't  want  to  go,  so  I  sha'n't  ask 
you.  I'll  come  out  on  the  one-o'clock  train, 
which  will  give  me  time  to  have  dinner  by  three. 
It'll  be  a  good  dinner.  I've  fixed  ready  for  it." 

Abner  offered  no  objection  to  the  plan,  but 
hitched  up  the  horse  and  took  his  wife  to  the 
train,  meeting  her,  also,  upon  her  return.  Her 
face  bore  a  different  expression,  he  noticed, 
from  that  it  had  worn  in  the  morning — a  brighter, 
more  cheerful  look.  They  chatted  of  various 
things  on  their  way  home— of  Rev.  Mr.  Wil- 
letts's  sermon,  which  Abner  had  heard;  of  the 
music  by  the  new  choir,  which  Abner  did  not 
like,  because  he  didn't  know  what  was  being 
sung — tunes  or  words. 

"That  Hamilton  girl — Nellie  is  her  name, 
isn't  it? — took  sick  in  meeting,"  he  said  casu- 
ally. "Screamed  and  had  to  be  helped  out  to 
the  air.  Hystericky.  I  guess." 

"Poor  thing!"  commented  his  wife.      "I  ex- 
pect she's  overworked  and  run  down.     I  must 
ask  her  out  to  spend  some  Sunday.     She  and 
Joe  used  to  be  good  friends." 
153 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE. 

They  ate  their  Thanksgiving  dinner  rather 
silently  and  their  thanks  were  not  fervent,  but 
perhaps  the  Lord  forgave  them,  knowing  their 
sore  hearts.  It  was  not  till  dinner  was  over  and 
Abner's  chores  done  that  Mrs.  Hale  disclosed 
the  purpose  of  her  morning's  visit  to  Indianap- 
olis and  its  result.  It  had  not  occurred  to  her 
husband's  rather  slow-moving  mind,  until  that 
moment,  that  she  had  as  yet  said  nothing  about 
it.  He  had  assumed  that  she  had  attended  a 
city  church  and  had  received  consolation  from 
the  words  of  the  pastor.  If  she  was  nervous 
over  the  confession  of  a  different  course  of  action 
she  did  not  betray  the  feeling,  but  went  boldly 
about  it. 

"Father,  I've  got  something  to  tell  you.  I 
went  in  town  to-day  and  visited  a  spiritualist 
medium — a  slate-writer.  She  didn't  know  I  was 
coming.  She  didn't  know  my  name.  She  didn't 
ask  a  question,  but  she  sat  down  at  a  little  table, 
took  this  little  folding  slate  that  Johnny  Miller 
left  here  (I  carried  it  with  me),  laid  her  hands 
on  it,  never  a  minute  out  of  my  sight,  and  while 
I  was  looking  the  little  pencil  inside  began  to 
scratch,  and  when  it  stopped  here  was  this  writ- 


154 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

ing,"   and  Mrs.   Hale  produced  the  slate  and 
began  to  read  from  its  pages. 

"Dear  Mother,"  the  writing  ran.  "Dear 
Mother:  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  at  last. 
Have  been  looking  for  you  anxiously.  I  knew 
you  grieved  because  I  passed  into  the  spirit 
world  before  you,  and  because  you  knew  so  lit- 
tle of  the  going,  but  I  knew  you  never  believed 
that  one  who  had  gone  could  ever  return  and 
talk  to  his  friends,  so  was  afraid  the  truth  would 
not  be  impressed  on  you  and  you  would  not 
come.  But  it  is  true,  mother.  This  is  your 
own  Joey  boy.  It  was  all  true  about  the  ship- 
wreck ;  we  went  down  without  warning  and  were 
drowned.  I  didn't  have  time  to  think  about  it, 
and  you  will  be  glad  to  know  I  didn't  suffer.  I 
shouldn't  have  wanted  to  go  if  I  had  known 
beforehand  what  was  to  happen,  but  it's  all 
right  now.  I  am  happy  —  perfectly  happy. 
Everything  is  beautiful  here.  I  can't  tell  you 
just  how  it  is,  because  we  are  not  permitted,  but 
you  will  know  some  day.  Father  isn't  looking 
well.  Now  that  that  affair  of  Lester's  is  off  his 
mind  he  ought  to  cheer  up.  Tell  him  not  to 
fret  about  me.  It's  all  right.  Come  and  talk 


155 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

to  me  again  some  day  soon.  Your  loving  son, 
Joseph  Albert  Hale." 

Down  in  one  corner  was  added :  '  'What  have 
you  done  with  old  Major?  I  don't  see  him 
about." 

Mrs.  Hale  read  this  communication,  as  she 
called  it,  slowly  and  impressively,  but  with  vis- 
ible excitement  and  elation.  Then  she  paused 
a  moment  for  her  husband  to  speak,  but  he  re- 
mained silent,  and  she  burst  out : 

"Isn't  it  wonderful,  Abner?  I  know  you 
never  believed  in  spiritualism,  and  neither  did 
I,  but  you  can't  deny  that  there's  something  in 
this.  Why,  here's  Joe's  very  own  handwriting, 
and  his  signature,  with  the  quirl  at  the  end  that 
he  always  makes  and  his  middle  name  written 
out  in  full.  That  was  a  notion  he  picked  up 
when  he  was  at  school,  but  I  never  could  get  in- 
to the  fashion  of  addressing  his  letters  any  other 
way  than  'Joseph  A.'  And  in  the  letter  he 
calls  himself  'Joey  boy.'  I  used  to  call  him 
'Joey,'  you  know,  for  a  pet  name.  And  who 
but  Joey  could  have  mentioned  that  trouble  with 
his  cousin  Lester,  when  only  we  four  ever  knew 
you  got  the  young  rascal  out  of  a  scrape,  and 
you  know  very  well  none  of  us  ever  mentioned 
156 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

it — Lester  least  of  all.  Then,  father,  he  says 
you  are  not  looking  well,  which  is  true,  and 
shows  he  must  have  seen  you.  Think  of  that! 
And  he  missed  old  Major.  I  never  wrote  to 
him  that  the  dog  had  died;  kind  of  hated  to.  I 
tell  you,  father,  it's  wonderful,  wonderful!  I 
never  would  have  believed  that  I  could  have  an 
atom  of  faith  in  spiritualism,  and  I  must  say  that 
I  wish  Joe  could  communicate  with  us  at  first 
hand,  and  not  through  a  total  stranger.  But 
this  way  is  better  than  nothing,  and  what  I've 
got  here's  a  great  comfort  to  me.  I'm  going 
again,  and  if  you — " 

Abner's  face  had  slowly  assumed  an  expres- 
sion that  caused  his  wife  to  pause  suddenly  and 
observe  him  with  some  apprehension.  He 
looked  at  her  fixedly  and  sternly,  then  spoke  with 
a  voice  trembling  with  anger : 

"Sarah  Jane!"  They  addressed  each  other 
in  the  sweet,  old-fashioned  way,  as  "father" 
and  "mother,"  except  on  those  occasions  when 
storms  loomed  in  the  domestic  sky.  "Sarah 
Jane  Hale,  has  it  come  to  this,  that  you,  a  pro- 
fessing Christian  for  forty  years,  a  member  of 
the  Presbyterian  church  in  good  standing;  that 
you,  the  wife  of  a  ruling  elder,  have  taken  up 
157 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

with  this  abominable  witchcraft,  and  have  the 
indecency  to  glory  in  it?  Have  you  not  read 
that  the  wrath  of  God  comes  upon  those  who 
practice  such  vile  arts?  Have  you  forgotten 
your  religion?  Do  you  care  nothing  for  the 
safety  of  your  immortal  soul?  I  am  shocked, 
Sarah  Jane!  I  am  astonished  and  grieved,  and 
I  insist  that  there  shall  be  no  more  of  this  idola- 
trous business.  It  was  thoughtlessness  that  led 
you  to  the  den  of  the  witch  this  time,  may  be, 
but  the  visit  must  not  be  repeated.  I  want  you 
to  promise  not  to  go  again,  and  I  should  like  to 
hear  you  say  you  are  sorry  for  this  visit." 

Mrs.  Hale,  after  a  gasp  of  surprise,  got  her 
breath  and  her  bearings. 

"She  is  not  a  witch,  but  a  respectable  lady, 
I'd  have  you  know,  Abner  Hale,  and  she  doesn't 
live  in  a  den,  but  in  a  house  that's  better  than 
this  one,  and  she's  a  member  of  the  Baptist 
church.  And  I  wouldn't  be  as  narrow-minded 
and  stiff-necked  as  you  are  for  a  farm.  There's 
things  in  this  world  that  you  haven't  found  out 
yet,  if  you  are  a  ruling  elder;  and,  anyway,  I 
won't  be  dictated  to  just  as  if  I  were  a  disobedient 
child  and  had  no  judgment  or  rights  of  my  own. 
You  don't  seem  to  understand  how  I  miss  Joe. 
158 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

It  was  a  real  comfort  to  me,  that  letter  from 
him,  and  I'm  not  sorry  I  went,  and  I  shall  go 
again  if  I  want  to.  So  there  !  " 

After  which  feminine  outburst  she  threw  her- 
self upon  the  lounge  and  sobbed  with  as  much 
abandon  as  if  she  were  ten  years  old  instead  of 
sixty.  Abner  was  not  moved  to  compassion  by 
her  tears. 

"Sarah  Jane,"  he  said,  solemnly,  "I  am  dis- 
appointed. I  have  always  considered  you  a  sen- 
sible woman — one  not  likely  to  be  led  away 
from  true  Christian  principles,  though  at  times 
you  haven't  been  as  faithful  to  the  means  of 
grace  as  would  be  becoming  in  an'  elder's  wife. 
I  know  Joe's  death  was  hard  on  you.  He  was 
was  my  son,  too,  but  I  haven't  found  it  neces- 
sary to  consort  with  Satan's  emissaries  for  com- 
fort. This  taking  up  with  evil  things  is  a  mat- 
ter that  calls  for  church  discipline.  It  ought  to 
he  laid  before  the  session,  but  I  ain't  ready  to  do 
that  yet,  Sarah  Jane.  I  want  you  to  have  time 
to  consider  the  iniquity  of  your  course  before  it 
is  made  public,  and  until  you  can  realize  it  I 
sha'n't  speak  a  word  to  you,  not  a  word  from 
this  hour." 


159 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

Mrs.  Hale  dried  her  tears  suddenly  and  sat 
up,  looking  at  her  husband  with  curiosity. 

"Are  you  six  years  old  or  sixty-five,  Abner 
Hale,  getting  mad  and  'not  speaking?'  "  she 
inquired,  sharply. 

Abner  deigned  no  reply,  but  wound  the  clock, 
kicked  the  cat  out  and  slammed  the  door  with 
more  energy  than  was  becoming  to  a  ruling 
elder,  then  stalked  majestically  off  to  bed  in 
silence. 

Mrs.  Hale  was  not  especially  overcome  by  this 
exhibition  of  conjugal  authority.  The  neigh- 
bors were  wont  to  speak  of  Mr.  Hale  as  "  terri- 
bly set  in  his  ways  and  domineering."  On  ac- 
count of  these  traits  the  women  were  inclined  to 
congratulate  themselves  on  not  being  married  to 
him,  but  this  feeling  was  not  really  a  sound 
basis  for  an  adverse  verdict  on  his  character. 
The  disposition  of  women  to  wonder  how  other 
women  can  ' '  put  up  ' '  with  their  respective  hus- 
bands arises,  perhaps,  out  of  feminine  inability  to 
comprehend  thoroughly  the  idiosyncrasies  of 
more  than  one  man  at  a  time.  Not  all  wives  are 
martyrs  who  seem  so  to  outside  eyes.  At  all 
events,  Mrs.  Hale  had  never  so  regarded  her- 
self, and  did  not  now.  She  had  lived  with  Ab- 
160 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

ner  for  forty  years  and  understood  him.  He 
had  "ways,"  and  she  had  adapted  herself  to 
them,  bringing  him,  in  the  long  run,  to  her  way 
of  thinking;  or,  at  least,  so  modifying  his  as- 
perities of  thought  and  character  as  to  make  him 
quite  satisfactory  to  her.  She  had  never  run  so 
directly  counter  to  his  prejudices  as  in  this  case, 
but  was  not  alarmed  at  his  wrath  and  only  mod- 
erately resentful. 

"  I  didn't  suppose  he'd  take  it  so  hard,"  she 
said  long  afterward,  "  but  I  might  have  remem- 
bered that  he  hadn't  been  thinking  the  matter 
over  for  a  month  or  so,  as  I  had.  I  ought  to 
have  talked  it  up  to  him  in  advance  and  got  him 
into  the  notion  by  degrees.  Poor  soul!  He 
tried  not  to  show  it,  but  he  grieved  for  Joe  every 
day  and  all  day  while  he  was  alone  at  his  work, 
and  his  nerves  were  all  wrought  up.  Women 
ain't  the  only  ones  that  get  cross  and  crabbed 
from  nervousness.  However,  I  wasn't  going  to 
give  in  right  at  once.  I  didn't  want  him  to  think 
he  could  dictate  to  me  that  way.  It  doesn't  do 
to  give  a  man  such  an  advantage,  even  once." 

Down  in  the  village  that  Thanksgiving  night, 
while  this  domestic  episode  took  place  in  the 
farm-house,  pretty  Nellie  Hamilton  lay  upon  her 
II  161 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

bed  with  wide-open  eyes,  staring  into  the  dark, 
her  mind  intent  upon  the  experience  of  the 
morning.  The  choir  had  performed  its  final 
"voluntary,"  the  minister  had  just  given  out  his 
text,  "Let  us  come  before  His  presence  with 
thanksgiving, ' '  and  the  congregation  was  settling 
itself  into  the  pews,  when  choir,  minister  and 
people  faded  out  of  sight  and  she  looked  upon  a 
far  different  scene — not  only  looked  upon  it,  but 
seemed  a  part  of  it.  There  before  her,  almost 
at  her  feet,  was  a  lake,  half  shadowed  by  a 
mountain,  whose  bare  and  rocky  summit  pierced 
the  sky.  A  vivid  green  forest,  whose  appear- 
ance was  strange  and  tropical,  circled  the  water 
and  was  thick  about  her.  In  a  little  opening 
were  two  or  three  huts,  and  near  them,  swung 
between  two  trees,  was  a  hammock,  in  which 
lay  her  lover,  Joe  Hale.  Pale  and  ill  he  looked, 
but  was  unmistakably  Joe.  As  she  stood,  or 
seemed  to  stand,  ready  to  step  forward  to  his 
side,  so  softly  as  not  to  awaken  him,  she  became 
aware  of  a  swarthy,  half-clothed  foreign-looking 
man  slipping  toward  the  hammock  from  the 
further  side.  His  face  wore  an  evil  look,  and 
he  glanced  furtively  about.  His  hand  crept 
toward  the  pocket  in  the  breast  of  the  flannel 
162 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

shirt  worn  by  the  occupant  of  the  hammock,  but 
the  movement,  soft  as  it  was,  roused  the  sleeper, 
and  he  started  up.  Quicker  than  it  could  be 
told,  a  bright  blade  flashed  in  the  air,  blood 
spurted  over  the  sick  man's  breast  and  he  fell 
back  as  if  dead.  It  was  at  this  moment  that 
Nellie  Hamilton  startled  the  congregation  with  a 
scream,  and  was  assisted  to  her  home  under  the 
belief  that  she  was  suddenly  taken  ill. 

Lying  there,  puzzling  over  it,  she  could  not 
solve  the  mystery.  It  could  not  be  a  dream. 
She  had  just  seated  herself  when  the  vision  came, 
and  had  had  no  time  in  which  to  grow  drowsy 
if  she  were  so  inclined.  She  was  thinking  of 
Joe  at  the  time ;  it  was  seldom  in  those  days  that 
he  was  far  from  her  mind,  but  she  pictured  him 
as  battling  with  fierce  waves,  and  as  sinking 
slowly,  surely,  and,  at  last,  despairingly,  into 
their  cruel  depths — a  hideous  vision  that  haunted 
her,  awake  or  asleep.  She  had  never  associated 
him  with  far  southern  lands ;  she  had  never  been 
outside  of  her  own  state  of  Indiana,  yet  she  knew 
that  an  actual  tropical  landscape  could  never  be 
more  real  to  her  than  this  phantasmal  scene  of 
the  morning.  She  could  almost  see  it  yet — the 
shining  green  of  trees,  whose  names  she  did  not 
163 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

know,  the  vines  that  stretched  from  branch  to 
branch  like  great  serpents,  the  rank  undergrowth, 
the  intense  blue  of  the  sky,  the  mountain,  with 
its  upper  height  a  bare,  stony  peak.  What  did 
it  mean?  She  remembered  hearing  her  Scotch 
grandfather  talk  mysteriously  of  second  sight, 
but  had  never  troubled  herself  to  know  just  what 
he  meant,  and  she  had  never  before  had  an  ex- 
perience like  this.  Besides,  if  Joe  had  been 
drowned  in  the  Pacific,  and  he  must  have  been 
drowned,  or  he  would  have  been  heard  from  long 
ago,  this  vision  must  have  been  a  delusion. 
Could  she  be  losing  her  mind?  she  wondered 
drearily,  and  fell  at  last  into  troubled  sleep. 

The  days  and  weeks  dragged  slowly  by, 
Abner  Hale  kept  strictly  to  the  letter  of  his 
threat  to  speak  no  word  to  his  wife  until  she 
showed  signs  of  repentance  for  what  he  con- 
sidered her  ill  conduct.  She  addressed  him 
freely  when  occasion  required,  and  sometimes 
when  it  did  not,  but  he  made  the  hired  man  his 
medium  of  communication,  directing  his  re- 
marks ostensibly  to  that  personage,  but  really 
to  Mrs.  Hale;  and  the  hired  man,  being  but  a 
stupid  creature,  concerned  more  with  eating  all 
that  was  set  before  him  than  with  what  went  on 
164 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

in  the  house,  never  discovered  that  he  was  used 
as  a  convenience.  With  neighbors  who  drop- 
ped in  Abner  talked  freely  and  even  eagerly, 
which,  in  view  of  his  usual  taciturnity,  caused 
them  some  surprise.  Once  his  wife  detected 
him  furtively  examining  the  slate  containing 
Joe's  letter,  which  she  kept  in  a  drawer  of  Joe's 
old  desk,  but  he  showed  no  sign  of  interest 
when  she  made  another  visit  to  the  city,  and  he 
had  reason  to  assume  that  she  again  visited  the 
woman  he  had  denounced  as  an  agent  of  the 
evil  one. 

She  did,  in  fact,  visit  that  person,  not  once, 
but  twice  or  more,  as  the  holidays  drew  near, 
and  she  felt  the  need  of  aid  in  resisting  the  de- 
pressing influences  of  other  people's  gayety. 
Each  time  was  repeated,  with  somewhat  greater 
amplification,  the  story  that  had  been  told  on 
the  slate  the  first  day.  Each  time  some  allus- 
ions were  made  or  questions  asked  which  con- 
vinced her  anew  that  Joe's  spirit  must  inspire 
the  pencil's  movements,  since  none  but  he  and 
herself  had  knowledge  of  the  matters  involved. 
Each  time  came  the  assurance  afresh  that  the 
unseen  writer  was  Joe,  her  son,  come  back  to 
her  in  this  way  from  the  other  world.  She 
165 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

could  not  doubt  that  this  was  true,  but  some- 
how the  slate  writings  did  not  continue  to  be 
the  comfort  to  her  that  she  had  first  found  them. 
There  was  a  consciousness  of  something  lacking, 
something  unsatisfactory;  there  was  a  barrier 
between  her  and  her  son  that  she  could  not 
overcome.  He  told  her  so  little,  after  all.  It 
dawned  on  her  one  day  that  he  had  really  writ- 
ten nothing  that  she  had  not  herself  known  or 
believed  before.  She  was  thinking  of  this  as 
she  left  the  station  one  afternoon  on  her  way 
home  from  one  of  these  visits,  and  had  won- 
dered if  it  would  not  be  just  as  well  to  fall  in 
with  Abner's  notions  and  tell  him  she  was  will- 
ing to  give  up  the  medium.  "But  I  won't  do 
it  just  yet,"  she  decided.  "He  hasn't  been 
behaving  well,  and  I  don't  want  to  encourage 
him  in  such  doings  by  giving  in  so  easily.  He 
ought  to  come  half  way,  anyhow,  and  I  think 
he  will  before  long.  He's  getting  very  un- 
easy." 

Nevertheless,  she  sighed  as  she  thought  of  her 
silent  home,  and  when  she  chanced  to  meet  Nel- 
lie Hamilton,  something  wistful  in  the  girl's  face 
attracted  her  notice  and  she  urged  her  to  accom- 


166 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

pany  her  to  the  farm.  Visitors  were  always 
welcome  now. 

' '  Come  out  and  spend  the  afternoon  with  me, 
and  if,  as  you  say,  you  must  be  home  to-night, 
Abner  will  bring  you." 

It  was  the  last  day  of  the  year,  but  the  clear, 
crisp  air  and  the  bright  sunshine  brought  sug- 
gestions of  spring,  and  both  women  felt  cheered 
in  a  vague  way  when  they  reached  the  country 
home.  Mrs.  Hale  talked  to  Nellie  of  her  lost 
son  that  afternoon,  and  found  a  sympathetic  lis- 
tener. She  related  anecdotes  of  his  boyhood ; 
she  brought  out  the  tintypes  and  photographs 
he  had  had  taken  at  various  stages  of  his  career ; 
she  showed  specimens  of  his  handiwork  about 
the  house;  she  told  how  thoughtful  and  consid- 
erate he  was  always  and  what  a  source  of  com- 
fort. But  with  all  the  confidences  bestowed  she 
did  not  mention  her  visits  to  the  medium  or  the 
story  on  the  slate ;  all  that  was  too  intimate  an 
experience  to  relate  to  this  girl,  who,  for  all  her 
evident  appreciation  of  Joe,  might  have  an  igno- 
rant prejudice  against  spiritualistic  manifesta- 
tions. She  had  had  it  herself  not  so  long  ago. 
Nor  did  Nellie  Hamilton  venture  to  tell  the  elder 

167 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

woman  of  her  vision  on  Thanksgiving  day,  nor 
of  the  later  one  the  day  before  Christmas. 

It  rained  on  the  latter  occasion,  and  as  she 
stood  on  the  school-house  step,  looking  up  the 
dreary  street,  after  the  children  had  gone  home, 
suddenly  street  and  houses  vanished,  the  dark 
sky  cleared,  and  before  her  stretched  a  wide 
sweep  of  gray,  sandy  desert,  patches  of  gray- 
green  vegetation  only  adding  to  the  dreariness ; 
not  far  distant  were  barren  hills,  and  beyond 
them  arose  mountains,  gray,  too,  and  craggy, 
with  lines  of  white  near  their  summits,  glittering 
in  the  pitiless  sunshine.  Almost  at  her  feet  lay 
a  horse,  gasping  as  if  for  breath,  his  tongue, 
cracked  and  bleeding,  hanging  from  his  mouth. 
Near  him  a  man  was  stretched  face  downward 
on  the  sand.  As  she  looked  he  raised  his  head, 
and,  with  dull  eyes,  gazed  drearily  about,  but 
she  had  not  needed  the  movement  to  know  that 
the  man  was  Joe  Hale.  He  was  gaunt  of 
frame,  but  his  face  was  brown,  not  white,  as  she 
had  seen  it  the  other  time,  and  there  was  a  red 
scar  on  his  forehead  not  there  before.  The  gray 
desert  stretched  away  until  it  melted  into  the 
horizon  line,  and  no  other  creature  was  in  sight 
in  all  its  space.  But  while  she  looked,  and  be- 
168 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

fore  she  could  take  the  one  step  forward  that 
seemed  to  divide  her  from  the  man  she  loved, 
the  scene  was  changed,  and  she  stood  upon  the 
school-house  steps,  staring  blankly  into  the  mud- 
dy street  of  Branchville. 

She  began  to  be  afraid  of  herself,  and  would 
have  liked  to  take  Joe's  mother  into  her  confi- 
dence and  ask  what  these  visions  could  mean, 
but  had  not  the  courage.  So  the  two  women 
talked  together  about  one  who  was  so  dear  to 
both,  and  each  kept  from  the  other  her  closest 
thoughts  concerning  him.  After  supper, when  the 
guest  would  go,  pleading  duties  that  demanded 
her  attention  in  the  early  New  Year's  morning, 
Abner  entreated  delay,  and  as  they  sat  about 
the  fire  he,  too,  conscious  of  sympathy,  fell  to 
relating  stories  of  the  dear  lost  son.  And  while 
they  talked  the  gate  opened,  a  step  was  heard 
on  the  walk,  then  on  the  porch,  and  Mrs.  Hale, 
her  face  suddenly  radiant  with  hope  and  joy, 
rose  swiftly,  and  before  he  could  touch  the  latch 
opened  the  door  to  her  son.  The  intuition  of 
the  mother  rose  superior  at  this  moment  to  the 
mysterious  power  that  brought  visions  from  far 
off  to  the  younger  woman. 

There  were  laughter  and  tears,  kisses  and 
169 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

embraces,  and  if  the  visitor  shared  these  neither 
father  nor  mother  stopped  to  wonder.  There 
were  incoherent  questions  and  answers  when  all 
talked  at  once  and  no  one  listened ;  there  was 
silence  of  deep  emotion  as  the  parents  looked 
upon  their  boy,  who  had  been  lost  and  was 
found,  and  put  their  hands  upon  him  again  and 
again  to  be  convinced  anew  that  he  was  truly  in 
the  flesh.  And  when  the  excitement  quieted 
they  all  gathered  close  while  Joe  told  them  the 
story  of  his  adventures ;  how  he  had  been  ship- 
wrecked, as  they  had  read  in  the  papers;  how 
the  steamship  had  made  little  effort  instead  of 
much  to  save  its  victims ;  how  he  had  clung  to 
a  floating  plank  till  morning  and  had  been 
picked  up  by  a  tramp  boat  which  had  mysterious 
errands,  whose  nature  he  did  not  inquire,  to 
Central  American  ports,  and  was  anxious  to 
avoid  California  harbors  for  reasons  that  he  sus- 
pected to  have  connection  with  customs  officers. 
He  told  how,  at  his  own  solicitation,  he  was 
put  ashore  at  the  first  Guatemalan  port,  and 
how,  instead  of  being  able  to  work  his  way  back 
to  San  Francisco,  as  he  had  hoped,  being  with- 
out money  after  the  shipwreck,  he  fell  ill  with 
fever  and  would  have  fared  badly  but  for  a  party 
170 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

of  American  miners  and  prospectors,  themselves 
scant  of  funds,  who  ran  across  him,  doctored 
him,  and  took  him  far  into  the  interior  before 
he  fairly  realized  their  kind  purpose.  They 
were  going  north  overland  in  search  of  one  of 
the  famous  lost  mines  of  Mexico,  to  whose  loca- 
tion they  thought  they  had  a  clew.  It  was  a 
wild  country  they  traveled  through,  and  their 
journeying  was  slow.  They  did  not  come  near 
the  civilization  of  which  railroad  trains  and  tele- 
graph wires  were  a  part,  and  so  he  wrote  no  let- 
ters, but  looked  forward  to  the  day  when  he 
should  reach  home  in  person,  and  fretted  that 
progress  was  so  slow. 

"I  had  one  or  two  close  calls,"  he  said  light- 
ly, with  the  disregard  for  dangers  past  common 
to  the  young.  "While  I  was  lying  in  a  ham- 
mock one  day  (it  was  the  Thanksgiving  day  here, 
by  the  way,  and  I  was  dreaming  of  home),  a 
Mexican  thief  crept  up  and  gave  me  this," 
touching  a  scar  on  his  forehead,  "and  another 
on  my  shoulder.  He  aimed  at  my  heart,  of 
course,  and  it's  a  wonder  he  missed.  And  only 
last  Monday,  just  a  week  ago  to-day,  I  thought 
I  was  gone.  I  had  left  my  friends  to  their  rain- 
bow chasing  and  started  to  make  the  rest  of  the 
171 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

way  to  Tucson  alone.  I  wandered  off  the  trail, 
my  skeleton  of  a  horse  broke  down — we  were  both 
famished  for  water — and  I  thought  for  a  bit  that 
the  jig  was  up.  But  while  I  was  on  the  sand 
thinking  the  matter  over,  what  did  I  hear — or, 
rather,  feel — but  the  faint  jarring  of  a  railroad 
train  and  the  echo  of  a  far-off  whistle !  It  was 
miles  away,  but  I  knew  I  was  all  right.  It  was 
the  sweetest  music  I  ever  heard.  Actually,  the 
old  horse  pricked  up  his  ears,  scrambled  to  his 
feet  and  jogged  on.  We  struck  the  track  after 
two  or  three  hours  and  followed  it  to  a  station. 
From  there  I  got  to  Tucson,  where  Tom  Bailey, 
my  old  room-mate,  is,  and  he  lent  me  money  to 
get  home  with.  So  here  I  am." 

The  women  shuddered  at  the  tale,  and  looked 
upon  this  youth,  who  talked  so  carelessly  of  his 
perils,  as  a  hero  of  heroes. 

The  hour  grew  late,  and  Nellie,  making  a 
movement  of  withdrawal,  found  Joe  eager  with 
his  proposal  to  accompany  her.  She  was  un- 
willing to  disturb  the  family  group,  but  read  en- 
treaty in  the  young  man's  eyes,  and  so  declined 
her  hostess's  invitation  to  remain.  They  scorned 
the  thought  of  driving,  and  went  out  gayly  to 
walk  the  short  mile  on  the  highway,  that  was 
172 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

to  them  that  night  a  path  to  paradise.  Under 
the  moonlit  sky  Joe  asked  her  the  question  he 
had  said  ought  never  to  be  written,  and  she 
whispered  her  answer  so  low  that  even  the  owl 
blinking  in  the  tree  overhead  could  not  hear. 
But  Joe  heard. 

As  they  loitered  down  the  road,  unmindful 
that  it  was  the  season  of  frost  and  not  of  roses, 
she  told  him  of  her  visions,  and  a  wonder  fell  upon 
them  that  she  had  seen  so  true.  Yet,  after  all, 
they  reflected,  with  the  beautiful  confidence  of 
youth  in  the  supreme  power  of  love,  it  was  not 
so  strange  that  two  souls  in  such  harmony  as 
theirs  should  come  to  each  other  across  the 
world.  As  they  looked  up  at  the  starry  sky,  think- 
ing of  this,  heaven  seemed  very  near,  and  they 
caught  a  glimpse  of  its  mysteries.  Then  the 
bells  rang  that  ushered  in  a  new  year,  and  they 
felt  that  it  was  the  beginning  of  life  for  them. 

Back  in  the  farm-house  another  subject  was 
under  discussion.  Mrs.  Hale  had  stood  in  the 
doorway  looking  after  her  son  with  a  pang  at 
her  heart  in  spite  of  her  joy  at  his  return.  Sud- 
den insight  had  come  to  her,  and  she  knew  that 
though  the  lost  was  found  he  would  never  be  all 
173 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

her  own  again.  She  sighed  as  she  shut  the 
door  and  turned,  with  absent-minded  gaze,  to- 
ward her  husband.  He  sat  by  the  fire,  with  a 
hand  on  each  knee  and  a  puzzled  expression 
on  his  face.  Through  all  the  confusion  and 
excitement  of  the  evening  he  had  remained 
faithful  to  his  promise,  and  had  not  addressed  a 
word  to  his  wife,  but  now,  without  preamble, 
and  as  if  no  silence  had  intervened,  he  began : 

"Mother,  what  do  you  reckon  it  was  that 
made  the  writing  on  them  slates  at  Madame 
Victorine's?" 

"I  don't  know,"  she  answered.  "It  cer- 
tainly wasn't  Joe,  for  he  didn't  get  drowned 
and  he  wasn't  dead,  and  still  some  of  the  things 
written  were  family  matters  no  one  could  have 
knowledge  of  but  one  of  us  three.  But  it  wasn't 
Madame  Victorine;  it  was  Mrs.  Mary  Ellen 
Johnson  who  was  the  medium."  Then,  with 
the  swift  intuition  of  a  woman  who  reads  her 
husband  like  a  book:  "Abner  Hale,  I  believe 
you  went  to  visit  Madame  Victorine  yourself  to 
get  slate  writings,  or  you  wouldn't  know  any- 
thing about  her!  You  did.  I  know  by  your 
sheepish  look  you  did.  Madame  Victorine,  of 
all  creatures,  too !  Why,  she  isn't  a  decent 
174 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

woman,  if  all  they  say's  true;  five  or  six  hus- 
bands, and  nobody  knows  where  one  of  'em  is, 
or  whether  they're  alive  or  dead.  You  ought 
to  be  ashamed  of  yourself — an  elder  in  the 
church.  And  all  the  time  holding  off  from 
speaking  to  your  own  wife." 

Abner  got  in  a  word  here. 

"I  wanted  to  investigate  a  little  on  your  ac- 
count, and  I  thought  you  mentioned  Madame 
Victorine,"  he  urged,  feebly. 

"My  account — nothing!"  was  her  scornful 
ejaculation.  "You  were  just  filled  with  curiosity, 
for  one  thing,  and  a  desire  to  hear  from  Joe,  for  an- 
other— don't  deny  it !  And  not  speaking  a  word 
to  me  for  a  whole  month,  and  talking  of  church 
discipline!  Huh!" 

Abner  had  risen  to  his  feet  and  affected  a 
dignity  it  was  obvious  he  did  not  altogether  feel. 

"Well,  mother,"  he  said,  in  a  conciliatory 
tone,  but  with  the  masculine  reluctance  to  own- 
ing himself  in  the  wrong  clearly  apparent ;  '  'well, 
mother,  I  guess  we  haven't  either  of  us  done 
anything  we  want  to  talk  about  before  folks.  It 
looks  as  if  the  devil  was  in  the  thing,  anyway, 
as  I  told  you  at  first.  I  guess  we'd  better  say 


175 


AN  OCCULT  EXPERIENCE 

nothing  about  th'e  matter  to  any  one — to  any  one, 
not  even  to  Joe." 

She  looked  at  him  intently  and  reflected  for  a 
moment,  then  laughed  a  little,  not  being  without 
humor. 

"I  guess  so,  too,"  she  said. 

And  she  never  did  mention  the  affair  to  any 
one  but  Joe,  who,  of  course,  told  his  wife. 


176 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

WERE  you  ever  at  Michigan  City,  in  Indi- 
ana? Stop!  Let  me  put  the  question 
more  carefully.  Were  you  ever  compelled  to 
wait  for  a  train  at  Michigan  City?  The  first  in- 
quiry sounds  innocent  enough,  but  a  Hoosier 
would  detect  a  covert  insult  in  it.  Why?  Be- 
cause one  of  the  three  state  penitentiaries  is  sit- 
uated there  and  is  the  town's  chief  distinc- 
tion to  the  outside  public.  A  native  of  the 
state  living  elsewhere  can  conceive  of  no  reason 
why  a  man  should  voluntarily  take  up  his  resi- 
dence in  the  place,  or  even  why  he  should 
"stop  off,"  except  to  visit  some  erring  and 
unfortunate  relative.  Hence,  to  avoid  trouble, 
those  persons  in  search  of  local  information  do 
well  to  be  on  their  guard. 

I  had  passed  through,   many  times,   on  my 
way  to  and  from  Chicago,  but  until  this  trip  had 
12  177 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

never  taken  closer  observations  than  through 
the  car  windows.  To-day  the  "lightning  ex- 
press ' '  on  the  Michigan  Central  road  was  three 
hours  too  early  for  the  one  train  that  in  those 
days — some  years  ago  now — daily  jogged  along 
down  the  road  leading  south.  What  should  I 
do  with  the  time?  I  looked  into  the  waiting- 
room  of  the  station.  No  passenger  had  left  the 
train  but  myself,  and  the  place  was  empty  save 
for  an  old  couple,  who  had  evidently  just  come  in 
from  the  country. 

I  went  out  and  explored  the  town.  Up  one 
street  and  down  another  I  strolled,  until  the  cir- 
cuit was  made.  In  every  direction  was  sand — 
mountains  of  sand,  valleys  of  sand.  It  was  in 
drifts  upon  the  sidewalks,  in  hillocks  in  the 
streets.  The  houses  were  built  upon  it.  Many 
dwellings  leaned  from  the  perpendicular  at  va- 
rious angles,  according  to  their  age,  the  shifty 
foundations  had  so  worn  away  and  blown  away. 
Though  it  was  a  bright  April  day  but  few 
people  were  on  the  street,  and  these  seemed  in 
haste  to  disappear  as  soon  as  seen.  It  may 
have  been  a  biased  imagination  that  saw  this,  or 
the  cause  may  have  been  the  chill  lake  wind. 

Was  it  fancy,  too,  that  made  the  women  and 
178 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

children,  visible  here  and  there  at  the  windows, 
seem  to  draw  back,  as  if  to  hide?  The  scatter- 
ing tufts  of  grass  in  the  front  yards  seemed 
to  have  given  over  the  ambition  to  cover  the 
earth  with  green,  and  were  creeping  under  the 
sand.  Did  I  imagine  a  burden  in  the  air,  as  of 
grief  or  guilt?  The  shadow  of  the  prison  seemed 
to  hover  over  the  place.  It  grew  oppressive. 

In  desperation,  I  resolved  to  climb  the  near- 
est sand-hill  and  view  the  world  from  that 
eminence.  Perhaps  I  might  find  an  elevation 
of  spirits  when  I  could  survey  the  prospect 
from  above.  Were  not  poets  always  telling  us 
to  commune  with  nature,  and  thereby  escape 
from  fret  and  care ;  to  seek  the  solitude  of  a 
height  and  see  the  earth  grow  fair  beneath  our 
feet,  the  mists  and  clouds  melt  into  sunlight? 
Laboriously  I  crept  and  scrambled  up  the  slip- 
pery side  of  that  miserable  hill.  From  the  foot 
it  had  not  looked  far  to  the  summit — perhaps 
not  over  one  hundred  feet — nor  yet  steep ;  but 
with  each  step  forward  and  each  slip  back  it 
seemed  to  grow,  until,  when  half  way  up  I 
stopped  to  breathe,  it  loomed  above  me  like  a 
mountain.  Out  to  the  north  was  Lake  Mich- 
igan, blue  and  cold.  Far  distant  could  be  seen- 
179 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

the  smoke  of  steamers;  nearer,  the  white  wings 
of  sail-boats;  but  all  were  outward  bound. 

Along  the  shore  the  sand  dunes  stretched 
for  miles.  Once,  long  ago,  the  lake  is  said  to 
have  covered  this  ground.  Having  been  given 
tip  by  water,  the  earth  had  not  had  thrift  to  re- 
claim the  waste.  Even  the  idle  train  of  vagrant 
weeds  had  not  wandered  in  to  hide  the  barren- 
ness. Beyond  the  town  rose  the  grim,  bare 
walls  of  the  prison.  Hundreds  of  men  in- 
side were  wearing  out  the  long  hours  of  weary 
days  in  toil  that  was  heavy  and  bitter,  because 
it  was  enforced.  Deprived  of  freedom  of  will, 
of  liberty  of  body,  without  hope  for  the  future, 
they  waited — for  what?  For  release  from  bond- 
age, to  spend  the  remnant  of  their  lives  as  Ish- 
maelites,  followed  in  the  world  by  sneers  and 
suspicion,  or  received,  if  at  all,  with  a  virtuous 
condescension  no  easier  to  bear.  Probably  they 
deserved  their  fate.  Some  of  those  men  had 
stolen,  some  had  forged,  some  had  murdered ; 
and  the  way  of  the  transgressor  was  hard,  we 
were  told.  It  was  right  that  they  should  suffer, 
then;  but  we  Pharisees,  were  we  without  sin, 
that  we  should  cast  a  stone?  Had  we  not  done 
those  things  that  we  should  not,  left  undone  that 
1 80 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

which  we  should?  Perhaps,  my  friend,  yon 
took  advantage  of  a  man's  need  and  made  an 
unrighteous  profit.  Did  you  not  foreclose  a 
mortgage  and  distress  a  debtor,  when  you  could 
have  waited?  Perhaps  you  did  not  love  your 
neighbor,  or,  may  be,  you  loved  his  wife  too 
well.  Such  things  had  been  known.  Perhaps — 
but  the  catalogue  was  long.  Because  the  law  had 
not  touched  us,  were  we  to  proscribe  those  on 
whom  its  finger  was  laid  ?  Life  was  bitter  at  best. 
What  were  we,  good  Lord,  that  we  should  take 
all  the  sweet  of  existence  from  any  man? 

This  little  sermon  I  preached  to  myself,  for 
lack  of  a  better  audience ;  but  the  wind  was  too 
keen  to  encourage  moralizing.  What  should 
I  gain  by  climbing  to  the  top  of  this  hill?  Each 
step  higher  would  only  show  a  wider  sweep  of 
desolation.  Why  should  I  emulate  the  young 
man  of  Alpine  fame?  He  was  a  foolish  youth 
and  came  to  an  untimely  end.  I  had  no  ambi- 
tion ;  besides  I  had  brought  no  banner  to  plant 
at  the  top  to  commemorate  my  deed.  It  was  a 
gloomy  world.  Nothing  was  worth  while.  I 
would  go  down. 

The  descent  was  rapid  and  undignified.  Eyes, 
ears  and  clothing  were  full  of  sand.  To  such 
181 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

irritation  of  mind  had  I  come  that  I  felt  ready 
for  reckless  deeds,  but  I  swallowed  wrath  and 
sand  together  and  walked  on. 

Suddenly,  in  a  sunny  corner,  between  a  pile 
of  railroad  ties  and  another  of  fragrant  pine  lum- 
ber, I  came  upon  the  old  couple  whom  I  had  seen 
at  the  station.  There  they  were — she  with  a  nap- 
kin spread  upon  her  lap  and  nibbling  daintily  at  a 
bit  of  cake ;  he  helping  himself  freely  to  sand- 
wiches or  chicken,  now  from  the  lap  that  served 
as  table,  now  from  the  basket  at  their  feet.  In- 
voluntarily, I  paused;  perhaps,  to  apologise  for 
the  intrusion,  perhaps,  attracted  by  the  people 
themselves,  or  drawn,  maybe  (who  knows?)  by 
the  luncheon.  Who  can  tell  afterward  just  how 
an  acquaintance  began?  In  ten  minutes  we 
were  chatting  briskly,  and  I  was  cheerfully  help- 
ing to  empty  that  lunch  basket.  I  think  the 
wife  opened  the  conversation  by  saying  that  they 
had  seen  me  climb  the  hill,  and  only  wished 
themselves  a  little  younger,  that  they  might  do 
the  same. 

No  one  is  so  charming  to  a  traveler  as  a 
woman,  young  or  old,  who  knows  when  and 
how  to  dispense  with  formality,  and  talk  kindly, 


182 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

yet  with  dignity,  to  a  stranger.     It   is  a  rare 
grace,  however,  I  h?ve  come  to  know. 

If  my  old  lady  whom  I  met  that  day  on  the 
sand  told  too  much  of  her  own  story,  it  was 
not  her  fault,  but  mine.  I  asked  questions  now 
and  then  to  lead  her  on.  As  we  talked  about 
the  weather,  of  the  trains,  of  the  time — drifting 
along  in  the  shallows  of  conversation  as  strangers 
do — I  became  slowly  conscious  of  a  something 
out  of  the  common  in  the  manner  of  these  old 
people.  Just  what  it  was  was  hard  to  define. 
There  was  nothing  at  all  remarkable  in  their 
personal  appearance.  He  was  tall,  spare,  with 
a  mild,  benevolent  face,  and  it  needed  only  one 
glance  to  be  assured  that  he  was  a  minister  of 
the  Gospel.  A  Presbyterian  minister  I  would 
have  said,  judging  from  a  certain  stiffness  of  car- 
riage and  gentle  dignity,  as  well  as  from  the  ex- 
treme neatness  of  his  well-worn  garments.  With 
a  little  surprise,  I  learned  that  he  was,  as  he 
put  it,  "the  Lord's  servant  in  the  Methodist  vine- 
yard"— Methodists  of  the  old  school  whom  I 
had  heretofore  met  being  noticeable  rather  for 
a  carelessness  of  dress  and  a  soldierly  bearing, 
as  of  those  who  had  conquered  men.  His  wife 
was  a  slender,  nervous  little  body;  one  of  the 
183 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

women  who  in  these  days  are  called  "delicate" 
and  of  whom  little  is  expected ;  one  of  those  who, 
when  the  tests  of  life  come,  sometimes  develop  a 
power  of  endurance,  mental  and  physical,  mar- 
velous to  see. 

"No,  we  don't  live  here,"  she  said.  "We 
have  been  spending  a  day  in  the  country  with 
some  old  friends,  but  we  came  up  to  see  a  young 
man  who  is  in  prison  for  murder.  He  was  a 
school-mate  of  our  son  Gabriel,  and  had  the 
making  of  a  man;  but  he  took  a  wild  and  reck- 
less turn  as  he  grew  up,  and  never  got  on  the 
right  track  again  till  now." 

"You  smile,"  said  the  old  minister;  "but 
you  know  that  building  is  a  place  of  bondage 
and  of  punishment  for  breaking  our  laws  only, 
and  not  God's  laws.  If  a  man  steal,  we  shut 
him  up  to  teach  him  that  he  shall  not  touch  our 
property;  but,  unless  he  repent  of  his  sin,  I 
hold  that  the  Lord  will  punish  him  still,  the 
same  as  if  we  had  let  him  go  free.  This  boy 
drank  to  excess,  he  quarreled,  and  the  jury 
found  that  he  had  killed  a  man.  For  the  sake 
of  his  dead  mother  and  of  our  son,  who  is  dead 
and  had  loved  him,  we  came  to  see  if  we  could 
help  him  on  the  way  to  be  forgiven ;  and  the 
184 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

good  God  has  blessed  us.  We  found  him  wretched 
and  without  hope .  We  could  give  no  comfort ;  we 
could  only  pray  for  help,  and  the  comfort  came. 
Before  we  came  away  he  began  to  feel  that  there 
was  mercy  waiting  for  him.  A  little  light  shone 
out  of  the  darkness ;  just  a  glimpse  of  the  glory 
beyond.  It  is  not  for  me  to  say  that  he  was 
more  guilty  than  another ;  but  we  all  have  need 
of  grace.  Cynthy  and  I  pray  that  the  little 
grain  of  faith  in  that  boy's  heart  may  take  deep 
root,  until  he  can  bear  his  punishment  with 
patience;  until  he  can  say  with  humility, 
'  Though  He  slay  me,  yet  will  I  trust  in 
Him.'" 

"It  made  my  heart  ache  to  leave  him,"  said 
Mother  Ellis  (I  knew  her  pet  name  must  be 
"Mother,"  it  fitted  so  well);  "but  God,  who 
has  been  so  good  to  us,  has  pity  for  him." 

There  was  no  want  of  reverence  in  this  con- 
tinual allusion  to  the  Almighty;  no  cant,  no 
grating  familiarity.  This  old  couple  talked  of 
Him  as  of  a  revered  friend,  with  whom  they 
had  constant  intercourse  and  in  whom  they  had 
utter  faith.  Their  simplicity  was  unworldly  and 
beautiful. 

"The  folks  down  to  Freedom,  where  we've 
185 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

been  living  lately,  wanted  us  to  go  to  Chicago 
and  see  the  sights,  while  we  were  so  near;  but 
John  and  I  we're  too  anxious  to  get  home." 
Here  she  looked  at  John  and  blushed,  and  he 
took  her  hand  in  his.  They  were  like  a  pair  of 
young  lovers.  It  was  curious. 

Presently  she  went  on,  with  a  contented  sigh, 
as  if  the  little  by-play  needed  some  explanation : 

"You  see,  John  and  I,  we're  going  home — 
to  a  home  of  our  own — for  the  first  time  in  our 
lives,  though  we've  been  married  forty  years 
come  June.  Forty  years!  It's  a  long  time, 
looking  at  it  some  ways ;  but  again  it  only  seems 
a  little  while  since  we  were  young  and  lived  'way 
back  in  York  state.  Those  hills  and  woods  were 
pretty  to  look  at.  I've  never  seen  their  like 
since.  Maybe  it's  wicked,  but  I  always  think  o' 
the  hills  'round  the  New  Jerusalem  as  being  like 
those  about  the  head-waters  o'  the  Allegheny. 
Like  as  not,  though,  the  New  York  hills  have 
been  cleared  and  'improved'  till  they're  bare 
enough  and  ugly ;  but  I've  no  fine  words  to  tell  ye 
how  they  used  to  look  to  me.  I've  learned  now  to 
see  beauty  in  a  level  country ;  but  it  took  a  long 
while.  When  we  first  came  to  Indiana,  John 
and  I,  seemed  as  if  I  couldn't  any  way  get  used 
186 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

to  the  low  land .  Do  you  remember  Chestnut  H ill , 
John,  over  toward  Cattaraugus?  If  I  were  one 
o'  the  painter  folks  I  could  make  a  picture  of  it 
now.  There  was  a  tall,  dead  tree  at  the  very 
top,  with  two  branches  reaching  out  like  arms, 
making  a  cross  that  could  be  seen  for  miles. 
When  I  was  young  and  foolish,  I  used  to  wish  I 
were  a  Roman  Catholic,  that  I  might  go  and 
pray  at  the  foot  of  that  tree  rather  than  in 
church." 

"  I  don't  remember  about  the  hills  being  so 
pretty — 'bout  the  same  as  others,  I  guess,"  said 
unpoetical  John;  "but  I  reck'lect  the  road 
through  the  pine  woods.  Do  you,  Cynthy?  " 

Again  the  faded  eyes  of  both  brightened  with 
love  that  is  ever  young.  Again  came  the  blush 
on  the  wife's  wrinkled  cheek,  and  this  time  John's 
feeble  arm  went  around  her  waist.  There  was 
silence  for  a  little  space ;  but  I  doubt  not  the  air 
was  filled  with  the  fragrance  of  the  pine  forest, 
that  their  ears  heard  the  murmur  of  the  trees. 
Once  more  they  listened  with  their  hearts  to  the 
words  of  long  ago,  which  had  made  that  wood- 
land path  so  fair  a  memory. 

'  'When  I  first  knew  John  he  taught  our  dis- 
trict school,  and  used  to  come  to  my  Uncle 
187 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

Isaac's  pretty  often.  Teachers  boarded  around 
in  those  days,  and  I  did  think  he  took  his  turn 
at  Uncle's  pretty  often.  I  knew  he  was  a  pious 
young  man,  who'd  had  a  call  to  be  a  preacher, 
and,  like  a  silly  girl,  was  a  little  afraid  of  him 
and  didn't  want  to  see  him.  He  stayed  all  sum- 
mer when  there  was  no  school,  helping  my 
uncle  and  the  neighbors  in  haying  and  harvest, 
studying  between  times.  In  those  days  the 
best  of  men  worked  in  the  harvest-field.  Be- 
fore early  apples  were  ripe  I  mistrusted  what 
was  keeping  him,  and  somehow  I  had  got  all 
over  being  afraid  of  him.  I  had  found  out  that 
he  was  an  orphan,  like  myself,  and  had  no  home. 
I  was  only  staying  with  Uncle  Isaac,  and  it  must 
have  been  that  which  made  my  mind  turn  to- 
ward him.  But  he  never  said  anything,  John 
didn't;  only  kept  hanging  'round  and  looking 
as  if  he  wanted  to  speak.  John  was  bashful ; 
but,  though  I've  heard  o'  men  too  bashful  to 
ask  a  girl  to  marry  'em,  I  never  knew  one,  and 
I  guess  John  'u'd  a  plucked  up  courage  after 
awhile,  even  if  the  revival  hadn't  come.  'Long 
in  October  Brother  Duzan  came  along  through 
that  region,  and  held  meetings  that  were  power- 
fully blessed.  It  was  early  in  the  season  for  a 
1 88 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

revival ;  but  everybody  turned  out  to  the  meet- 
ings at  our  school-house.  I  had  never  ex- 
perienced religion  then,  though  Uncle  Isaac 
often  made  me  the  subject  of  prayer.  I  was 
giddy  and  thoughtless,  and,  like  many  another, 
I  couldn't  or,  rather,  wouldn't  see  how  good 
the  Lord  was  to  me. 

"Well,  I  went  with  the  rest  to  the  meetings; 
but  my  heart  was  hard.  Seemed  as  if  it  grew 
harder  the  more  the  brethren  and  sisters  prayed 
and  exhorted,  though  all  the  young  folks  I  knew 
were  going  forward  to  the  mourners'  bench  and 
were  being  converted.  One  night  Brother  Du- 
zan  preached  his  dreadful  sermon  on  future  pun- 
ishment of  the  godless,  that  he  always  kept  for 
the  crowning  effort.  He  told,  in  awful  words, 
how  the  unconverted  sinner  would  finally  suffer 
and  burn  in  endless  torment,  and  everybody  was 
crying  and  groaning  but  myself.  That  threat 
couldn't  soften  me  then,  and  I'm  free  to  confess 
has  no  effect  now.  Then  John,  he  led  in  prayer. 
His  voice  was  so  soft  and  gentle  that  it  hushed 
the  excitement.  He  besought  the  tender  Shep- 
herd, who  loved  all  His  sheep,  to  look  with  spe- 
cial care  upon  the  playful  lambs,  whose  willful 
feet  refused  to  follow  whither  they  were  led ;  to 
189 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

draw  them  back  with  merciful  hands  before  they 
should  learn,  too  late,  that  only  the  narrow, 
rocky  path  led  to  the  green  pastures  that  were 
beside  still  waters. 

"I  knew  he  prayed  for  me,  and  my  heart  was 
melted  then ;  and,  for  fear  the  tears  would  come, 
I  slipped  out  of  the  door,  while  the  rest  were  on 
their  knees.  But  John  saw  me — though  how  he 
could,  with  his  back  turned,  I  never  knew — and 
I  didn't  get  far  into  the  pine  woods  alone.  He 
began  where  the  prayer  had  stopped.  'The 
Lord  was  waiting/  he  said,  'for  me  to  stretch 
out  my  hands,  and  He  would  take  me  into  the 
blessed  fold.'  And  I?  What  should  I  do  but 
cry,  as  a  woman  always  does  when  she  should 
not.  Then  John,  to  comfort  me,  began  to  tell 
how  God  loved  me ;  and  from  that,  some  way, 
it  was  easy  to  say  how — well,  no,  John,  I  shan't 
tell  what  you  said  then,  and  don't  you,  either. 
I  kind  o'  forgot  for  a  minute  that  we  were  not 
alone,  and  was  thinking  out  loud,  I  guess.  I 
hope  our  friend  will  excuse  me,  for  when  she 
comes  to  be  old  such  places  in  her  life  will  stand 
out  clear  in  her  memory,  where  many  another 
important  thing  has  faded  away. 

"The  next  night  I  went  to  meeting,  and  made 
190 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

a  profession  of  religion.  What  could  I  do  but 
praise  the  Lord  for  being  so  good  to  me,  who 
was  so  undeserving.  Had  he  not  given  me 
John,  and  what  was  I  that  such  a  blessing  should 
be  mine?" 

Here,  the  mild  eye  of  Reverend  John  looked 
at  me  over  his  wife's  head  with  a  mischievous 
twinkle.  As  she  went  on,  however,  his  face 
resumed  its  serenity. 

'  'We  have  lived  many  years  since  then.  Some- 
times the  way  has  been  rough  and  hard.  We  have 
had  trials  and  losses  ;  but  mercy  and  goodness  have 
followed  us,  for  we  have  borne  the  burdens  to- 
gether. I  can  confess  now,  though  I  never  said  so 
to  John,  that  one  of  the  heaviest  crosses  of  my 
life  has  been  the  wish  for  a  home.  When  we 
were  married,  I  knew  that  I  was  taking  an 
itinerant  Methodist  preacher  for  better  or  worse 
(it  has  always  been  the  better,  never  the  worse, 
John) ;  but  I  could  not  know  till  I  had  tried  it 
what  a  wandering,  unsettled  life  it  was.  Dif- 
ferent in  the  early  days  from  now,  too.  When 
we  came  out  here,  it  was  looked  upon  as  more 
of  an  undertaking  than  going  to  Europe  now. 
There  were  no  railroads  then  running  here  and 
there  across  the  country ;  so  we  came  by  water 
191 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

on  a  flat-boat  to  Pittsburgh  and  in  a  steamboat 
from  there.  Stopped  at  Cincinnati  to  see  the 
sights.  It  was  a  fine  city  then,  but  they  say 
it's  grown  since. 

"Daughter,  a  volume  would  not  hold  our  ex- 
perience of  forty  years.  We  have  been  sojourn- 
ers,  never  long  in  one  place.  It's  only  of  late 
years,  you  know,  that  Methodist  ministers  are 
allowed  to  labor  more  than  two  years  in  one 
church.  Then  there  was  the  loneliness;  for 
sometimes  John  would  be  gone  on  the  circuit, 
away  from  his  family  for  weeks  at  a  time.  I 
could  not  go,  because  of  the  children.  We 
have  been  here  and  there,  here  and  there,  and 
used  to  live  in  pretty  wild  places,  with  few 
neighbors." 

John  took  up  the  thread  here:  "I  never 
was  what  is  called  a  popular  preacher,"  he  said, 
with  a  gentle  smile.  "I  tried  to  do  my  duty — 
the  Lord  knows  that;  but  the  people  would 
sometimes  grow  anxious  about  building  up  the 
church,  and  would  want  a  man  who  could  bring 
in  large  accessions  to  the  membership.  I  tried 
to  win  souls  to  the  Master,  with  His  help ;  but, 
though  I  trust  my  sheaves  will  contain  more 
than  weeds,  the  harvest  in  my  field  has  been 
192 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

less  abundant  than  in  many.  The  elders  and 
bishops  are  judges  of  men,  and  they  stationed 
me  where  I  could  do  best,  no  doubt.  Latterly, 
some  have  told  me  that  people  nowadays  do  not 
like  to  hear  so  much  about  Christ  and  Him 
crucified,  that  they  prefer  the  religion  of 
humanity,  and  that  I  should  adapt  my  style  to 
the  times;  but  it  is  too  late.  I  am  too  old  to 
learn  a  new  religion  or  to  sugar-coat  or  rarefy 
the  old  one.  It  was  a  lack  of  faith,  I  fear,  that 
caused  a  disappointment  when  they  sent  me  to 
an  obscure  corner,  a  by-way,  as  sometimes  they 
did.  It  was  all  the  Master's  vineyard,  and  I 
should  have  worked  without  a  murmur ;  but  I 
thought  too  much,  perhaps,  about  the  little 
earthly  reward  and  that  I  could  make  no  pro- 
vision for  old  age.  We  knew  the  Lord  had 
always  been  good  to  us,  Cynthy.  We  should 
have  trusted  Him  in  this,  for  He  had  never  failed 
us  and  He  never  will.  'Underneath  us  are  the 
everlasting  arms.'  ' 

"Yes,"  said  Cynthy,  "the  Lord  has  provided 
for  us.  We  are  to  have  a  home  of  our  own  in 
our  old  age;  a  home  where  our  children  can 
come  to  visit  us  or  to  stay.  As  I  said,  I  couldn't 
complain.  It  was  the  will  of  Heaven  that  we 
13  193 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

should  live  as  sojourners.  We  could  not  set  our 
hearts  upon  this  house  or  that  tree,  as  people 
will.  The  room  where  the  son  died  or  the 
daughter  married  could  not  be  kept  sacred,  for 
we  must  leave  them;  the  roses  and  the  vines 
which  we  might  plant  would  grow  to  gladden 
other  eyes  than  ours.  Such  worldly  affections 
do  not  seem  wrong;  but  they  might  have  been 
a  snare  to  us.  For  a  year  or  two  John  has  been 
so  afflicted  with  rheumatism  that  he  could  not  go 
about,  and  has  been  put  on  the  superannuated 
list. 

"If  you  know  anything  about  Methodists,  you 
know  they  do  not  contribute  to  the  fifth  col- 
lection as  liberally  as  to  some  others,  and  the 
fund  for  worn  out  ministers  is  small.  I  suppose 
they  do  not  realize  the  needs  of  any  one  so  near 
them.  We  have  always  lived  on  a  little — no 
one  knows  so  well  as  a  Methodist  preacher's 
family  how  to  make  much  out  of  nothing; 
but  of  late  we  have  been  sore  pressed.  Our 
children— only  five  are  living  out  of  ten— are 
scattered  far  and  wide.  Two  are  missiona- 
ries in  India ;  two  are  teaching  in  the  south,  and 
our  oldest  son,  a  farmer  in  Texas,  is  the  only 
one  who  is  at  all  forehanded.  He  has  wanted 
194 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

us  to  make  our  home  with  him ;  but  we  couldn't 
quite  make  up  our  minds.  Seemed  as  if  we 
couldn't  quite  give  up  to  go  so  far  and  get  used 
to  new  things  and  a  new  country.  Old  people 
get  dreadful  set  in  their  ways,  you  know. 

"It  had  got  to  look,  though,  as  if  the  Lord 
meant  that  we  should  go,  and  we  were  beginning 
to  make  our  plans  and  to  talk  of  a  few  farewell 
visits  we  must  make. 

'  'We  have  some  old  friends  we  should  want  to 
see  once  more,  and  we  must  take  another  look  at 
the  graves  where  our  children  were  laid  at  rest. 
It  had  come  to  be  about  settled  that  we  were 
to  go.  The  Gosport  Howitzer  had  mentioned 
it  in  its  personal  column,  saying  we  should  be 
greatly  missed,  when  a  letter  came  telling  us  the 
Widow  Green  up  at  Arcady  had  died  and  left  us 
her  property.  We'd  been  up  to  see  Mrs.  Green 
not  long  before,  and  she  talked  then  of  leaving 
what  she  had  to  the  Foreign  Missionary  Society, 
and  we  never  once  thought  of  her  mentioning  us 
in  her  will.  But  she  did  leave  us  the  home. 
Not  much,  maybe  you'd  say — its  only  a  little 
cottage  and  an  acre  o'  ground ;  but  it's  a  home, 
for  all  that,  an'  I've  wanted  one  for  so  many 
years.  * 

i95\ 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

"We  regret  the  Widow  Green,  of  course.  She 
was  a  good  Christian  woman,  though  a  trifle 
irritable;  but  she'd  been  bedridden  and  so  af- 
flicted for  many  a  day  that  it  was  her  desire  to 
go  whenever  the  call  should  come.  We  shall 
have  no  care  for  ourselves  the  rest  of  our  days, 
for  the  future  is  provided  for.  We  are  such 
weak  creatures  that  faith  is  not  always  strong 
enough  to  take  no  thought  for  the  morrow.  We 
want  a  sign — something  we  can  see  and  touch. 

"Is  it  wrong,  I  wonder,  to  think  so  much  about 
worldly  things?  I  have  planned  how  every 
room  shall  look.  I  have  seeds  of  all  the  flowers 
I  can  find  like  the  ones  that  grew  in  the  yard 
when  I  was  a  girl.  We  shan't  have  very  much 
money;  but,  with  our  share  of  the  Retired 
Preachers'  Fund  and  with  our  garden,  we  shall 
have  enough.  I'm  spry  if  I  be  old,  and  always 
had  a  knack  at  making  things  grow.  John's 
a  master  hand  to  work  in  the  garden,  too,  when 
he's  well.  I  tell  John  (don't  laugh  at  a  foolish 
old  woman) — I  tell  John  that  this  is  like  a  wed- 
ding journey.  We  traveled  a  long  way  when 
we  were  married;  but  we  didn't  reach  the  home 
for  forty  years.  John  is  as  anxious  to  get  there 
as  I,  but  is  more  sensible  and  not  so  impatient. 
196 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

We  are  going  to  stop  at  Kokomo  to-night  with 
Brother  and  Sister  Roberts,  and  in  the  morning 
we  shall  go  on  home  to  Arcady.  Home !  How 
sweet  the  word  sounds,  John!" 

There  had  been  a  movement  of  freight  cars  in 
our  vicinity  for  some  minutes ;  distant  whistles 
of  locomotives  echoed  around,  and  John  had  be- 
come restless.  He  rose  stiffly,  but  eagerly. 
"Cynthy,  I  think  it  must  be  near  time  for  our 
train ;  it  would  never  do  for  us  to  miss  this  one, 
or  we  shouldn't  get  home  till  to-morrow  night. 
Let  us  go." 

I  left  them  on  the  car,  with  hope  and  expecta- 
tion in  their  faces,  and  said  farewell  as  to  old 
friends.  "Come  and  see  us  in  our  home,  my 
daughter,"  was  their  last  word.  May  the  Lord 
bless  you  as  he  has  blessed  us,  and  good-bye!" 

As  I  waited  yet  a  little  for  my  train  the  bene- 
diction seemed  to  linger.  The  boats  were  com- 
ing gayly  in  to  shore  now;  the  western  sun 
shone  with  a  warm  glow  upon  the  distant  prison 
windows ;  school  children  laughed  and  shouted 
as  if  care  and  crime  were  not.  Truly,  the  world 
had  not  all  gone  wrong.  There  was  hope  yet, 
and  life  was  worth  living  after  all. 


197 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

A  year  later,  in  the  station  at  Indianapolis,  I 
caught  a  glimpse  of  the  two  kind  old  faces  once 
more.  The  eagerness  had  gone  out  of  them; 
there  was  peace  and  resignation  instead  of  hope. 
They  looked  out  of  a  car  that  was  westward 
.bound.  A  farmer,  standing  at  my  elbow,  told 
the  story. 

"Father  Ellis?  Yes.  Him  and  his  wife  is 
goin'  West,  to  jine  their  son  'at  has  a  cattle 
ranch  some'rs  in  Texas.  One  o'  these  yer 
onlucky  Methodis'  preachers,  the  old  man  is. 
Preached  around  on  circuits  in  Indianny  fer  a 
matter  o'  thirty  or  forty  year.  Married  an'  had 
right  smart  o'  children,  of  course,  as  his  perfes- 
sion  allays  does.  How  they  managed  to  scratch 
along  an'  raise  them  young-uns  on  the  skimped 
wages  Methodist  preachers  do  get  beats  me. 
Seems  'sef  people  like  them  ort  to  be  fed  by  the 
ravens,  as  Elisha  was,  or  some  sech  way;  or 
their  meal-bar 'Is  filled  up,  likethewidder  Cruse's. 
How's'ever,  I  s'pose  some  way's  allays  pervided. 
In  this  case  the  old  man  had  got  past  his 
preachin'  days,  an'  not  a  nickel  saved  fer  old 
age,  when  old  Mis  Green,  at  Arcady,  north  o' 
hyer,  up  an'  died,  an'  left  him  her  little  jag  o' 


198 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

proputty.     Not  worth  much,  to  he   sure;  but 
a  right  snug  little  home. 

"With  this  an'  what  he'd  get  from  the  super- 
annuated fund,  they  was  fixed  to  inch  along  com- 
fortable to  the  end  o'  their  days.  But  law! 
what  does  the  old  fellow  do,  when  they  hadn't 
got  more'n  fairly  settled,  but  go  security  fer 
Jim  Jeffries,  out  Cicero  road !  Anybody  with 
a  grain  o'  business  sense  'ud  a  knowed  it  was 
flyin'  in  the  face  o'  Providence,  for  Jeffries 
allays  was  slack  an'  shif'less  an'  'twan't  noways 
likely't  he'd  be  able  to  meet  them  notes;  an' 
he  didn't  nuther,  an'  Father  Ellis  he  hed  to 
pay  the  debt,  but  it  took  all  they  was.  So 
hyer  they  be,  all  tore  up  by  the  roots,  so  to- 
speak.  Doggoned  pity,  I  say." 

I  went  aboard  the  car  to  speak  a  word  of 
greeting.  The  aisle  was  blocked  by  a  small 
woman,  with  a  large  basket,  and  by  a  young 
miss  who  exchanged  farewell  giggles  with  a  de- 
parting friend,  interspersed  with  messages  to  their 
respective  beaux.  While  I  waited  just  behind 
them,  the  old  wife's  voice  reached  me,  soft  and 
clear,  amid  all  the  confusion.  I  listened,  and  I 
turned  away,  sure  that  they  needed  no  comfort 
I  could  offer. 

199 


AN  ITINERANT  PAIR 

"The  Lord  has  been  very  good  to  us,  John. 
I  can  see  now  that  my  heart  was  set  too  much 
on  worldly  things,  and  it  was  best  they  should 
be  taken  away.  The  Lord  doeth  that  which  is 
good,  John.  He  has  left  us  each  other." 

"Yes,  Cynthy,  He  has  said:  'I  am  with 
thee  and  will  keep  thee  in  all  places  whither  thou 
shalt  go.'  We  are  old,  my  dear,  and  night  will 
soon  pass  forever  into  the  dawn  of  eternal  day. 
May  we  enter  together  into  the  land  that  is  no 
longer  very  far  off.  Let  us  pray,  love,  that 
death  shall  not  part  us;  that,  still  together, 
when  the  morning  is  come,  we  may  open  our 
eyes  in  the  Heavenly  Kingdom,  where  a  place 
is  prepared  for  us." 


200 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

IT  was  Sunday  forenoon,  and  Lodilla  Jackson 
was  engaged  in  "doing  up"  the  morning's 
work.  She  had  washed  the  breakfast  dishes, 
put  the  kitchen  in  order,  made  the  beds,  helped 
get  her  young  brother  and  sister  off  to  Sun- 
day-school and  her  mother  started  to  church, 
and  had  got  the  dinner  well  under  way.  Lodil- 
la worked  during  the  week  in  the  establishment 
of  a  manufacturing  chemist,  or,  as  the  place  was 
otherwise  known,  a  patent-medicine  factory, 
where  she  pasted  labels  on  bottles  and  pill-boxes, 
afterwards  putting  these  articles  in  elaborately 
printed  wrappers.  Sunday  was  her  "off"  day, 
but  she  usually  spent  the  first  half  of  it  in  the 
manner  described  in  order  to  relieve  her  mother, 
who  was  also  a  hard-working  woman,  as  widows 
with  children  and  little  money  are  apt  to  be. 
She  was  twenty  years  old,  and  a  good  girl. 
Ever  since  she  was  fourteen  she  had  been  earn- 
201 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

ing  money,  and,  with  the  help  of  her  mother^ 
her  brother  two  years  younger,  and,  now,  of  a 
younger  sister  who  answered  to  the  call  of 
"H-e-r-e,  C-a-s-h,"  in  a  dry  goods  shop,  had 
almost  succeeded  in  clearing  their  little  house  of 
the  mortgage  that  encumbered  it  when  her  fa- 
ther died.  Almost,  but  not  quite.  There  was 
still  necessity  for  frugality  and  self-denial,  and 
little  chance  for  indulgence  in  the  vanities  and 
luxuries  in  which  girls  delight.  Nevertheless, 
Lodilla  was  not  downcast  or  unhappy;  far  from 
it.  She  looked  forward  confidently  to  the  time 
when  debt  would  cease  to  be  a  burden,  and, 
meanwhile,  planned  a  little  for  that  happy  day. 
This  morning,  while  the  corned  beef  and  cab- 
bage boiled  merrily  on  the  stove  and  the  molas- 
ses cake  browned  in  the  oven,  she  opened  the 
parlor  door,  and,  dust-cloth  in  hand,  gazed  med- 
itatively about  that  retreat.  The  room  had  been 
a  source  of  great  comfort  to  her  mother  and 
herself.  Its  possession  seemed  to  them  a  visi- 
ble token  of  their  respectable  social  standing. 
It  was  not  every  one  of  their  neighbors  on  the 
quiet  little  South-side  Indianapolis  street  who 
could  afford  a  parlor.  A  good  many  of  the 
people  in  their  part  of  town  lived  in  houses  so 

2O2 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

small,  or  had  families  so  large,  that  not  a  cor- 
ner of  their  establishments  could  be  spared  for 
company  uses  exclusively.  Or,  sometimes, 
when  the  extra  room  was  there,  the  occupant  of 
the  house  could  not  afford  the  necessary  outlay 
for  suitable  furniture. 

The  fittings  for  the  Jackson  parlor  had  been 
bought  when  the  paternal  Jackson  was  alive  and 
in  the  enjoyment  of  health  and  good  wages. 
The  selection  of  this  furniture  had  been  the  out- 
come of  much  thought,  consultation  and  finan- 
cial calculation  on  the  part  of  the  two  older  mem- 
bers of  the  family,  Lodilla  at  that  time  being  of 
an  age  when  her  opinion  on  such  matters  was 
not  influential.  There,  as  the  foundation  of  the 
outfit,  was  the  ingrain  carpet,  with  a  green  and 
black  vine  of  most  luxuriant  growth  meandering 
over  its  bright  red  ground.  There,  against  the 
widest  wall  space,  was  a  haircloth  sofa,  now 
worn  to  a  gloss  that  rivaled  the  Russia-iron 
stove,  and  with  a  lumpiness  of  surface  and  weak- 
ness of  springs  unknown  to  it  when  new.  The 
stove,  an  upright  cylinder,  decorated  with  much 
nickel-plating,  was  regarded  when  purchased  as  a 
great  ornament  to  the  room,  and,  although  now 
adapted  to  the  use  of  natural  gas  instead  of  the 
203 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

coal  for  which  it  was  originally  meant,  was  still 
held  in  much  esteem  in  the  household.  There 
were  several  cane-seated  chairs,  a  table  which 
held  a  large  glass  lamp,  and,  on  a  shelf  under- 
neath, the  family  Bible.  The  crowning  glory  of 
the  room  was  the  small  cabinet  organ  in  one  cor- 
ner. Lodilla,  at  an  early  age,  had  learned  to 
play  ' '  by  ear  ' '  a  few  simple  tunes  and  accompa- 
niments, and  when  the  family  and  their  visitors 
gathered  there  on  Sunday  afternoons  and  sang 
"  Shall  We  Gather  at  the  River,"  "  Hold  the 
Fort,"  "Whiter  than  Snow,  "In  the  Sweet 
Bye  and  Bye,"  and  other  "gospel  hymns," 
Mrs.  Jackson,  for  one,  felt  that  she  enjoyed 
many  blessings,  while  the  pleasure  felt  by  all  in 
the  music  would  certainly  have  been  far  less  in- 
tense at  a  symphony  concert. 

But  it  was  not  on  any  of  these  pieces  of  fur- 
niture that  Lodilla  was  looking  with  some  dis- 
content visible  in  her  face ;  it  was  upon  the  more 
decorative  features  of  the  apartment  .  Over  the 
high  wooden  mantel  hung  a  crayon  portrait  of 
her  departed  father,  enlarged  to  a  head  of  life 
size  from  a  tintype  of  thumb-nail  proportions  by 
one  of  those  mysterious  processes  practiced  by 
peripatetic  artisans.  Her  father  had  been  gone 
204 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

too  long  for  her  to  feel  any  deep  personal  senti- 
ment In  regard  to  him,  but  the  picture  was  in- 
vested with  the  interest  of  a  sacred  relic,  and  she 
had  no  thought  of  disturbing  it.  On  the  wall, 
over  the  sofa,  hung  that  pair  of  chromos,  "Wide 
Awake"  and  "Fast  Asleep,"  which,  when,  as 
newspaper  prizes,  they  found  places  in  a  multi- 
tude of  homes  years  ago,  were  so  universally 
characterized  as  "perfectly  lovely."  Lodilla 
was  a  trifle  tired  of  these  pictures,  not  because 
she  detected  any  lack  of  artistic  merit,  but  be- 
cause she  did  not  think  the  chubby  little  girl 
portrayed  in  them  a  pretty  child.  Still,  she 
did  not  at  this  time  cherish  any  designs  against 
them. 

Her  eyes  moved  slowly  along  the  row  of  pho- 
tographs of  various  sizes  resting  on  the  mantel, 
from  there  passed  to  the  framed  marriage  certifi- 
cate of  her  parents  hanging  above  the  cabinet 
organ  in  a  line  with  the  framed  certificates  of 
baptism  of  herself  and  her  brother  and  sister, 
then  wandered  from  these  to  a  large  "memorial 
piece, ' '  framed  in  black  and  hanging  in  the  place 
of  honor  between  the  windows,  and  rested  there 
with  especial  dissatisfaction.  This  piece,  which 
was  printed  in  very  black  inks,  with  very  deep 
205 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

shadows  and  very  white  high  lights,  represented 
a  marble  tombstone  of  dazzling  whiteness,  a 
willow  tree  and  a  kneeling  widow,  who  had  evi- 
dently come  to  weep,  but  had  changed  her  mind 
and  was  looking  up  with  ecstatic  gaze  at  a» 
angel  with  powerful  wings  bearing  the  astral 
body  of  the  occupant  of  the  grave  up  to  a  heaven 
beyond  a  flock  of  woolly  clouds.  Printed  on 
scrolls  in  the  corners  were  sundry  comforting 
texts,  and  below,  the  full  name  of  the  deceased 
Jackson,  engrossed  in  an  ornamental,  Spencerian 
hand.  This  remarkable  work  of  art  was  kindly 
furnished  to  the  widow  for  $2.75 — $1.25  off  for 
an  immediate  sale — by  the  agent  of  an  enter- 
prising engraving  firm  soon  after  her  husband's 
death. 

"I  do  wish,  ma,"  said  Lodilla  to  her  mother, 
who  entered  just  then,  "I  do  wish  I  had  a  pho- 
tograph album — one  like  Nell  Abbott's,  a  big 
plush-covered  one.  It  would  be  so  stylish  on 
the  table,  and,  besides,  is  so  much  better  for 
keeping  photographs  than  setting  them  around 
on  things.  And,  ma — " 

Here  Lodilla  hesitated  and  blushed  a  little. 

"Ma,  Joe — Mr.  Little — is  getting  his  pictures 
taken — great  big  cabinets — and  if  he  gives  me 
206 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

one  it  would  be  nice  to  have  a  place  to  put  it. 
He  just  admires  Nell's  album;  told  her  he 
thought  every  family  ought  to  have  one." 

It  will  be  observed  that  Lodilla,  capable 
young  woman  that  she  was,  was  not  quite  up  to 
date  in  this  matter,  but  in  her  behalf  it  must  be 
said  that  she  had  not  had  the  advantage  of  asso- 
ciation with  young  society  women,  who  claim  to 
lead  in  fads  and  fashions  of  this  sort,  and  who 
abandoned  the  album  as  a  drawing-room  orna- 
ment some  time  since.  Her  ideas  as  to  the  de- 
sirability of  the  article  had  been  gathered  from 
visits  to  the  homes  of  her  friends,  who  were  still 
in  the  plush  album  and  chromo  stage  of  devel- 
opment. She  had  also  gone  with  her  mother  on 
one  occasion  to  carry  a  basket  of  mended  cloth- 
ing to  a  bachelor  apartment,  where,  in  the  com- 
mon sitting-room  of  the  half  dozen  young  men, 
the  center-table  held  six  large  family  albums 
arranged  about  the  lamp,  and  presumably  con- 
taining -  likenesses  of  the  relatives,  sweethearts 
and  favorite  actresses  of  the  respective  owners. 
Lodilla,  who  was  much  impressed  with  the  lux- 
ury of  other  fittings  of  this  room,  felt  that  the 
albums  were  the  crowning  touch  of  elegance, 
and  had  longed  for  one  ever  since.  She  had 
207 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

particularly  desired  one  since  Joe  Little,  brake- 
man  on  the  Big  Four  railroad,  had  loomed  on 
her  social  horizon.  She  wanted  his  picture,  and 
fancied  that  he  would  be  the  more  willing  to  be- 
stow it  if  she  had  a  suitable  casket  for  the  treas- 
ure. She  was  an  unsophisticated  girl,  you  see, 
unaware  that  no  man  needs  encouragement  to 
his  vanity  beyond  the  mere  willingness  on  the 
part  of  a  young  woman  to  accept  a  likeness  of 
himself. 

Mrs.  Jackson,  who,  mother-like,  would  have 
been  glad  to  gratify  all  her  daughter's  tastes, 
looked  a  little  troubled. 

"I  don't  see,  Dilly,"  she  said  hesitatingly, 
"  I  don't  see  how  we  can  afford  one  now." 

' '  Of  course  not,  ma ;  of  course  not, ' '  said 
Lodilla,  with  a  sudden  return  to  cheerfulness. 
"  I  know  we  can't  afford  it  yet  a  while,  and  I'm 
not  grumbling.  Don't  you  think  it.  I  was  just 
wishing  and  talking,  and  that  don't  hurt,  you 
know.  But  some  day,  ma,  I'm  going  to  have 
that  album,  and  some  day  I'm  going  to  buy 
some  pictures  and  get  you  to  put  the  memorial 
piece  and  the  certificates  in  your  bedroom. 
They've  hung  where  they  are  so  long  I'd  like  a 


208 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

change,  and  the  parlor  needs  a  little  freshening 
up  and  more  style." 

Her  mother  sighed  a  little,  without  looking  at 
all  sad.  Her  grief  for  the  departed  Jackson  was 
so  mitigated  by  time  that  the  sighs  brought  by 
allusions  to  him  were  more  from  habit  than 
emotion,  and  no  longer  indicated  the  least  de- 
pression of  spirits. 

"I  always  liked  that  memorial,"  she  said. 
"  It's  so  sort  of  satisfactory.  That  angel  who's 
carrying  your  pa  is  so  big  and  strong  that  you 
can  easy  enough  see  how  he  can  do  it.  He 
looks  so  substantial.  The  Widow  Thomas,  she 
has  one  where  the  angel's  just  starting  down  af- 
ter Thomas — a  little,  thin,  weakly  angel  you  can 
see  through,  and  you  know  the  old  man  must 
have  weighed  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds  if  he 
did  one.  Of  course,  we  don't  suppose  his  spirit 
was  heavy,  but,  somehow,  there  don't  seem  to  be 
a  fitness  in  sending  such  a  puny  messenger  after 
him.  It  seems  a  pity  to  put  that  memorial  out  of 
sight  in  the  bedroom,  but  young  folks  must  have 
their  way,  I  reckon.  You  don't  think  of  taking 
the  chromos  down,  do  you?  "  she  asked,  anx- 
iously. "  Your  pa  gave  them  to  me  before  we 
was  married,  and  people  come  from  all  around 
14  209 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

to  see  them,  and  everybody  said  they  were  just 
the  finest  pictures  that  had  ever  been  seen  in 
Cherry  Corners.  Old  Mr.  Van  Lew  offered  ten 
dollars  for  them,  because  Little  Wide  Awake 
looked  so  much  like  his  grand-daughter,  Lucy 
Ann  Rodibaugh.  But  I  wouldn't  a'  taken 
twice  that  then." 

Dilly  assured  her  mother  that  she  had  no  in- 
tention of  removing  ' '  Wide  Awake  ' '  and  ' '  Fast 
Asleep,"  and  hastened  to  look  after  her  dinner. 

The  cabbage  which  had  boiled  so  long  and 
steadily,  was  tender,  the  potatoes  mealy,  the 
corned  beef  just  as  it  should  be,  the  molasses 
cake  light  and  sweet  and  delicious — just  the 
cake  that  children  remember  all  their  lives  as 
the  kind  mother  used  to  make,  a  memory  which 
causes  them,  when  they  are  old,  to  wonder  why 
no  one  else  can  ever  make  as  good. 

And  if  you -think  the  family  gathered  around 
that  board  and  partaking  of  that  frugal  fare  were 
not  as  happy  as  it  is  often  given  to  people  to  be 
in  this  rather  pleasant  world,  then  you  know  lit- 
tle of  the  rewards  of  honest  toil,  of  the  delights 
of  home  provided,  and  its  comforts  earned  and 
paid  for  by  the  efforts  of  all ;  you  have  forgot- 
ten the  eager  appetite  of  healthy  youth,  which 
210 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

gives  the  plainest  food  a  zest  that  a  Lucullus 
feast  could  not  offer  now.  And  if  you  think 
Miss  Lodilla,  with  her  narrow  life,  her  daily 
labor  and  her  simple  hopes  and  ambitions,  was 
wasting  time  or  energy  in  repinings  at  her  lot, 
or  fancied  herself  in  any  respect  ill-used  by  fate, 
then  you  little  understand  the  serene  indepen- 
dence of  the  self-reliant,  self-supporting  Ameri- 
can girl,  who,  confident  of  her  ability  to  provide 
for  herself,  envies  no  one. 

Lodilla,  in  her  neat  black  skirt  and  shirt  waist, 
in  summer— oh,  the  ever-useful,  universal  shirt 
waist! — and  her  trim  cloth  jacket  over  the  waist 
in  winter,  wended  her  way  back  and  forth  each 
day  between  home  and  factory,  making  one  of 
the  great  army  of  working  women,  but  having 
her  own  little  plans  and  cares  apart  from  such 
associations,  and  her  maidenly  dreams,  just  as 
other  girls  do  with  more  time  for  dreams — just 
as  all  girls  do  while  life  is  young  and  love  is 
sweet.  Joe  Little,  the  big,  fair-haired  brake- 
man,  figured  a  good  deal  in  these  meditations. 
He  came  to  see  her  now  and  then,  when  he  had 
no  "run"  to  make,  but  it  was  always  on  a  week- 
day evening.  Sunday  evenings  he  spent  with 
Nellie  Abbott,  Lodilla's  dearest  friend.  That 
211 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

is,  she  had  been  her  nearest  and  most  confiden- 
tial friend,  the  girl  to  whom  she  had  confided  all 
her  little  secrets,  but  lately  the  intimacy  had 
waned  somewhat,  and  perhaps  Joe  Little  had, 
unconsciously  to  himself,  something  to  do  with 
the  coolness.  These  ardent  friendships  between 
girls  are  so  apt  to  die  a  sudden  death  when  an 
attractive  young  man  comes  on  the  scene. 

Joe  Little  had  first  met  both  the  girls  at  a 
church  strawberry  festival,  but  had  seemed  to 
give  preference  to  Nellie.  The  chief  sign  of  his 
favor  was  the  fact  that  his  calls  upon  her  were 
made  on  Sunday  nights,  and  in  their  social  circle 
this  meant  more  serious  intentions  than  an  ordi- 
nary week-night  visit.  He  was  a  musician  of 
local  repute,  being  known  as  a  "boss  fiddler," 
and  this  accomplishment  gave  him  welcome  ad- 
mission to  the  best  society  of  the  neighborhood. 
Nellie,  being  something  of  a  coquette,  did  not 
appear  to  care  especially  for  him,  and,  for  that 
matter,  neither  did  Lodilla — she  was  too  fully  a 
woman  for  that — but  she  did  care,  and  was  learn- 
ing to  think  about  him  more  and  more. 

"I  really  don't  think  Nell's  prettier  than  I 
am,"  she  would  say  to  herself,  looking  anxiously 
in  the  glass.     "Nell's  got  a  real  good  complex- 
212 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

ion,  lots  better  than  mine,  but  her  nose  is  pug 
and  her  eyes  are  squinty.  They  are;  she  can't 
deny  it,  and  they  do  say  cross-eyed  people  get 
to  have  bad  tempers,  even  if  they  don't  begin 
with  them.  Nell's  awful  peppery  sometimes 
now  when  things  don't  go  her  way.  It  can't 
be  her  looks;  it  must  be  other  things.  She's 
got  a  piano  and  can  play  the  'Maiden's  Prayer,' 
'The  Brook,'  'The  Gussie  Waltz'  and  a  lot  of 
pieces,  and  he  likes  music  so.  And  she's  got 
a  photograph  album,  and,  oh  dear!' 

You  people  who  accept  the  assurances  of 
novelists  and  cheap  critics  that  women  with  the 
smallest  claims  to  comeliness — and  where  is  she 
who  has  none? — are  satisfied  with  themselves, 
and  unable  to  recognize  the  charms  of  their 
rivals — you  merely  show  your  ignorance.  The 
normal  girl  is  distinctly  aware  of  her  own  de- 
fects, and  as  keenly  conscious  of  the  other  girl's 
especial  attractions.  She  recognizes,  with  a 
pang  at  her  heart,  the  captivating  effect  of  the 
little  curl  on  her  rival's  white  neck,  the  dimple 
in  her  chin,  of  the  long  lashes,  under  which  she 
glances  so  bewitchingly.  She  may  honestly 
wonder  why  the  man  in  the  case  is  so  stupid 
and  blind  as  not  to  detect  that  other  girl's  faults 
213 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

of  character  which  are  so  clear  to  her,  but  she 
never  undervalues  the  outward  allurements. 

Strawberry  time  and  its  festivals  were  now 
long  past,  and  early  winter  was  here,  but  Joe 
Little  showed  no  signs  of  change  in  his  fancy 
for  Nellie  Abbott,  except  that  his  calls  at  the 
Widow  Jackson's  were  rather  less  frequent  then 
they  had  been.  Lodilla  began  to  have  little 
heartaches,  and  if  she  cried  when  her  sister  was 
asleep  and  she  could  smother  her  sobs  in  the 
pillow,  it  would  not  be  at  all  surprising.  But 
if  anybody  guessed  her  sadness  and  its  cause  it 
was  only  her  mother,  and  mothers  never  betray 
such  secrets. 

She  worked  as  industriously  as  ever  over  her 
bottles  and  pill-boxes,  chattered  as  gayly  with 
her  companions  as  usual,  and  loitered  before  the 
shop  windows  during  the  noon  hour  with  the 
natural  and  wholesome  curiosity  of  a  healthy 
young  woman.  Love,  of  the  lurid,  all-absorb- 
ing kind  we  read  about,  that  takes  the  appe- 
tite, banishes  sleep  and  destroys  other  interests 
of  life,  is  less  frequent  than  the  variety  which 
permits  other  sentiments  to  exist  simultaneously 
and  allows  the  sufferer  intervals  of  comparative 
comfort  and  cheer. 

214 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

One  evening  Mr.  Little  dropped  in  unexpect- 
edly and  brought  his  fiddle — he  did  not  call  it  a 
violin.  He  did  not  tell  Lodilla  that  he  had  in- 
tended to  go  to  Nellie's,  but  from  across  the 
street  had  chanced  to  see  William  Marvin, 
freight  conductor  on  his  road,  enter  before  him 
and  receive  a  warm  greeting  from  the  young 
lady.  He  "never  could  abide  Bill  Marvin,"  and 
wouldn't  spend  an  hour  in  the  same  room  if  he 
could  help  it. 

Lodilla  made  herself  particularly  agreeable 
that  evening.  She  begged  him  to  play  for  her, 
and  he  did  play  the  "Wrecker's  Daughter," 
"Fisher's  Hornpipe,"  "Drunkard's  Heecups" 
— a  tune  in  which  the  plunking  of  the  strings  gives 
the  realistic  effect  of  hiccoughs — the  "Arkansaw 
Traveler"  and  a  Strauss  Waltz.  At  least  these 
are  what  he  told  her  they  were,  and  she  thanked 
him  and  praised  him  and  said  she  loved  the  fid- 
dle, and  could  never  grow  tired  of  it ;  and  then 
she  sang  all  her  songs  to  the  cabinet  organ  ac- 
companiment with  its  undertone  of  wheezy 
groans,  suggestive  of  misery  in  its  inside,  and 
never  before  had  she  put  such  feeling  and  earn- 
estness into  tunes  or  words.  And,  after  the 
visitor  had  been  served  with  doughnuts  and 
215 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

a  big  glass  of  unfermented  grape  juice  that  ma 
put  up  herself,  he  went  home,  well  pleased  with 
himself  and  all  the  world,  Lodilla  included.  She 
was  happy,  but  not  confident.  She  had  still  an 
oppressive  fear  of  her  rival. 

The  very  next  day  she  was  drawn  by  irresist- 
ible attraction  into  a  crowd  in  front  of  a  big 
Washington  street  shoe-shop,  and  stood  there 
with  fascinated  eyes  watching  a  man  in  the  win- 
dow who  painted  a  beautiful  landscape  while 
you  waited.  There  he  stood,  painting  clouds, 
trees,  rivers  and  river  banks,  grassy  knolls,  mos- 
sy dells  and  gray  rocks  with  lightning  swiftness 
— laying  on  one  color  and  then  another,  and 
bringing  out  marvelous  effects  before  you  fairly 
knew  what  he  had  intended. 

A  yellow  circular  thrust  into  her  hand  by  a 
boy  informed  her  that  she  could  have  one  of 
these  works  of  art  free  of  cost  if  she  would  pur- 
chase a  pair  of  shoes  in  the  shop — the  frame 
only  being  charged  for. 

A  sudden  ambition  filled  her  mind.  She  had 
the  money  in  her  pocket  for  a  pair  of  shoes  and 
meant  to  buy  them  that  very  afternoon.  Why 
not  purchase  them  here  instead  of  at  the  little 
shop  on  the  side  street,  which  she  had  always 
216 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

patronized?  They  might  cost  a  little  more 
here,  but  then,  just  for  once,  and  with  this  prize 
in  view,  she  might  surely  venture  the  additional 
outlay.  The  frame  was  extra,  but  she  would 
take  a  ninety-eight-cent  one  and  save  the 
amount  after  awhile  out  of  the  price  of  her  win- 
ter gown.  Without  giving  herself  time  to  re- 
consider, she  bought  the  shoes,  selected  the 
picture  she  had  seen  painted,  or  one  precisely 
like  it,  and  went  her  way,  feeling  the  fearful  joy 
of  a  wish  gratified  at  the  cost  of  wild  extrava- 
gance. 

The  purchase  created  a  sensation  at  home, 
and  though  the  careful  mother  shook  her  head 
doubtfully  over  the  investment  of  so  much  mon- 
ey for  purely  decorative  purposes,  she  did  not 
remonstrate,  but  joined  with  the  rest  of  the  fam- 
ily in  admiring  the  new  possession. 

"You  see,  ma,"  said  Lodilla,  with  intent  to 
justify  herself,  "you  see,  hand-painted  pictures 
are  the  thing  no w-days ;  everybody  says  so,  and 
they  cost  like  everything.  Nell  says  her  un- 
cle's sister-in-law  in  Chicago  paid  twenty- 
five  dollars  for  a  painting  not  more  than  ten 
inches  across,  and  Joe  Little,  he  told  me  about 
a  five-hundred-dollar  picture  he'd  seen  a  man 
217 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

carrying  home  on  the  train  one  day,  and  there 
wasn't  a  thing  to  it  but  two  or  three  sheep  and 
a  dog  on  a  side-hill.  And  just  think!  This 
didn't  cost  a  cent  without  the  frame." 

The  next  day  was  Sunday,  and  frequent  were 
Lodilla's  visits  to  the  parlor  to  look  at  her  treas- 
ure hanging  in  state  between  the  windows,  in 
place  of  the  memorial  piece,  now  retired  to  the 
privacy  of  ma's  bedroom.  That  night  who 
should  come  but  Joe  Little  to  ask  her  to  go  to 
church.  She  accepted  the  invitation  with  se- 
date dignity,  but  with  secret  joy.  Sunday 
night!  That  meant  so  much. 

Nellie  Abbott  was  there  with  the  freight  con- 
ductor, whom  Lodilla  mentally  classified  at  once 
as  "perfectly  horrid,"  and  was  instantly  con- 
vinced that  her  old  friend  was  consumed  with 
envy  of  her  superior  good  fortune  in  securing 
the  handsome  and  altogether  more  desirable  es- 
cort. Filled  with  which  thought,  she  smiled 
with  great  sweetness  on  Miss  Nellie. 

After  services  were  over  Joe  came  in  with 
intent  to  sit  by  the  sheet-iron  cylinder  and  enjoy 
an  hour  of  social  converse.  Lodilla  wished  her 
new  art  acquisition  to  dawn  upon  him  unan- 
nounced, and  sat  in  tremulous  expectation  of  his 
218 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

verdict.  Finally,  after  talk  about  the  weather, 
ma's  cold,  the  new  choir  and  various  neighbor- 
hood topics  had  begun  to  languish,  Mr.  Little's 
glance  chanced  to  fall  upon  the  picture.  He 
rose  slowly  and  stood  before  it,  inspecting  it 
closely  with  a  critical  eye ;  then  he  made  a  tele- 
scope of  his  hands  and  viewed  it  from  a  more 
distant  standpoint.  Then  he  said  impressively : 

"Lodilla,  that's  a  mighty  good  thing;  it's  got 
good  points.  You  don't  want  to  stand  too  close 
to  one  of  them  hand-painted  oil  pictures,  they're 
apt  to  blur,  but  just  get  off  a  piece  and  they 
come  right  out.  That  lightning  artist's  a  dandy. 
Shows  what  a  painter  man  can  do  who  puts  his 
mind  to  it  and  isn't  afraid  to  work.  It  must  make 
those  fellows  who  potter  over  one  picture  for 
weeks  just  sick  to  see  him  dash  them  things  off 
at  such  a  rate.  I  tell  you,  Lodilla,"  he  added 
with  animation,  after  a  pause  and  further  inspec- 
tion, "it  looks  like  a  place  on  the  old  farm  down 
home.  I've  set  on  that  rock,  or  one  like  it,  and 
fished  for  bass  in  just  such  a  hole  many  of  a 
time." 

Then,  as  if  with  inspiration  of  the  instant; 
"And  say,  Lodilla" — here  he  faltered  and  his 
voice  grew  soft — "say,  don't  you  want  to  marry 
219 


A  MOVEMENT  IN  ART 

me  some  day  and  go  down  there  and  visit  the 
home  place  and  the  old  folks?" 

It  was  sudden,  but  she  was  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency. His  arm  was  around  her,  and  her  answer 
was  whispered  on  his  shoulder,  but  not  so  low 
that  he  could  not  hear. 

When  Christmas  came,  a  few  weeks  later,  he 
gave  her  a  big  red  plush  album  with  gilt  trim- 
mings and  a  little  mirror  set  in  the  corner,  and 
she  felt  that  her  cup  of  bliss  was  full. 

The  album  was  a  treasure,  but  Lodilla  will 
value  that  picture  between  the  windows  till  the 
end  of  her  days.  It  brought  her  love  and  Joe. 
Art  education  is  not  always  a  rapid  process.  Her 
children  may  learn  to  appreciate  picture  posters 
and  know  what  Beardsleyism  means,  but  she  will 
be  forever  satisfied  with  her  landscape  painted  in 
nine  minutes  as  her  mother  before  her  was  with 
the  chromos. 


220 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

A  RELIGIOUS  revival  had  been  in  progress 
in  the  churches  of  Greenbrier,  Indiana,  for 
six  weeks — that  is,  in  the  Methodist,  the  Bap- 
tist and  the  Presbyterian  churches.  The  Roman 
Catholics  went  on  calmly  with  only  their  usual 
services,  and  were  regarded  with  more  than  the 
ordinary  measure  of  pity  by  their  Protestant 
neighbors  as  persons  who  had  never  been  prop- 
erly converted,  and  were  little  better  than  be- 
nighted heathen.  Episcopalians,  too,  continued 
in  the  even  tenor  of  their  way,  and  had  their 
customary  dancing  and  card  parties,  which  were 
frowned  on  with  greater  sternness  than  ever  by 
the  rigid  Methodist,  Presbyterian  and  Baptist 
brethren  who  had  not  yet  reached  the  tolerant 
stage  in  relation  to  these  amusements  attained 
by  members  of  their  denominations  in  larger 
cities.  Even  the  young  people  of  these  churches 
who  had  been  wont  to  think  longingly  of  the 
221 


THE  QJJICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

forbidden  entertainments,  and  sometimes  to  par- 
ticipate in  them  surreptitiously,  now  looked 
askance  at  the  frivolous  givers  of  the  parties  and 
promised  themselves  that  by  the  help  of  the 
Lord  they  would  never  be  led  into  such  evil  do- 
ings again,  for  these  young  people  were  among 
the  fruits  of  the  revival,  and  had  bidden  farewell 
to  sin. 

Such  a  wonderful  ingathering  of  souls  had 
not  been  known  before  in  the  history  of  Green- 
brier.  The  revival  movement  began  simultane- 
ously in  the  three  churches,  and  almost  from  the 
beginning  a  wave  of  religious  emotion  manifest- 
ed itself.  Young  and  old  were  affected  by  it; 
innocent  children  and  case-hardened  sinners  suc- 
cumbed, the  first  unresistingly,  the  second  reluc- 
tantly, to  its  power.  Every  night  the  churches 
were  crowded  and  every  night  penitents  seeking 
salvation  rose  for  prayers,  or  went  forward  and 
knelt  at  the  altar  as  the  custom  of  the  respective 
sects  required.  Every  night  numbers  of  these 
penitents  declared  that  they  had  found  what  they 
sought,  that  they  had  shaken  off  the  bonds  of 
iniquity  and  had  entered  upon  a  new  life.  Back- 
sliders returned  and  renewed  their  faith.  The 
interest  was  intense.  A  subdued  excitement 
222 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

was  in  the  air  and  affected  the  transaction  of 
business  and  household  affairs  throughout  the 
town.  People  hurried  through  their  evening 
meals  in  order  that  they  might  miss  no  feature 
of  the  coming  services.  Now,  after  six  weeks, 
though  there  was  no  falling  off  in  attendance,  it 
began  to  be  said  that  the  meetings  would  soon 
close.  As  one  pious  but  practical  elder  put  it, 
the  harvest  was  gathered,  and  why  go  raking 
over  the  ground?  A  few  sinners  remained  un- 
converted, it  was  true,  but  they  were  seemingly 
hopeless  and  must  be  left  to  the  Lord's  mercy. 
On  this  Friday  night  of  the  sixth  week  as 
many  people  as  ever  hastened  along  the  streets 
to  the  places  of  meeting  and  the  Methodist 
Church,  at  least,  quickly  filled  with  a  congre- 
gation as  large  as  at  any  time  during  the  re- 
vival season.  People  had  come  to  depend  on 
the  excitement  and  dreaded  a  termination  of  it. 
In  their  narrow  village  life  the  meetings  took 
the  place  of  drama  and  opera  and  social  gaye- 
ties,  with  the  addition  of  a  personal  and  emo- 
tional element  that  such  entertainments  lack, 
and  that  held  them  through  night  after  night  of 
prayer  and  exhortion  without  wearying.  A 


223 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

thorough-going  revival  in  a  town  of  this  kind 
has  uses  not  contemplated  by  its  promoters 

Among  the  later  arrivals  was  a  group  of 
young  girls  who  entered  a  pew  not  far  from  the 
door.  There  was  a  little  crowding  and  confus- 
ion as  they  passed  in,  and  if  Althea  Hood,  the 
youngest  member  of  the  party,  had  been  ob- 
servant of  her  companions  she  would  have 
seen  that  their  purpose  was  to  give  her  a  seat 
next  the  aisle.  She  saw  nothing  and  sat  con- 
tentedly enough,  her  thoughts  absorbed  in  the 
scene  about  her.  Althea  was  not  yet  sixteen ;  un- 
til these  meetings  opened  she  had  never  attended 
a  religious  gathering  more  exciting  than  the 
Sunday  morning  services  in  the  Episcopal 
church  where  she  went  with  her  parents,  and 
the  regular  weekly  Presbyterian  prayer-meeting 
to  which  she  had  gone  with  an  elderly  neighbor 
on  several  occasions.  Her  parents,  easy-going 
and  indulgent,  after  the  American  fashion,  had 
allowed  their  young  daughter  to  take  her  own 
way,  and  when  she  showed  herself  disinclined 
to  confirmation  ceremonies  had  not  insisted, 
saying  to  each  other  it  was  better  that  she 
should  choose  the  bonds  she  would  wear  when 
she  was  old  enough  to  know  her  duty  to  God 
224 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

and  her  fellow-creatures.  So  far  were  they  out 
of  sympathy  with  revival  methods  that,  perhaps, 
it  did  not  occur  to  them  that  their  self-contained, 
unemotional  child  was  likely  to  be  affected  by 
them,  and,  indeed,  she  had  shown  no  signs  of 
being  so. 

One  by  one  her  school  associates  had  suc- 
cumbed to  the  pleadings  of  the  pastors,  evange- 
lists or  other  workers  in  the  vineyard,  had  passed 
through  a  period  of  penitence  and  grief,  and  had 
finally  declared,  in  more  or  less  childlike  and  in- 
coherent phrase,  that  they  felt  the  burden  of 
sin  lifted  from  their  souls  and  an  assurance  that 
they  were  saved  by  divine  grace.  Henceforth 
they  would  turn  their  backs  upon  the  tempta- 
tions of  this  world  and  would  love  God  and 
praise  Him  for  the  rest  of  their  days.  So  many 
of  these  school-mates  had  professed  conversion 
that  at  last  Althea  was  the  only  one  of  her  circle 
who  remained  unmoved  by  the  appeals  that  had 
so  affected  the  others.  She  took  a  deep  inter- 
est in  all  the  proceedings,  but  seemed  to  make 
no  personal  application  of  the  exhortations.  She 
watched  her  companions  curiously.  That  a 
change  of  some  sort  had  passed  over  them  was 
plain.  It  manifested  itself  in  an  increased  se- 
15  225 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

dateness  of  behavior;  she  was  aware,  too,  in  the 
presence  of  certain  ones,  of  a  pitying  condescen- 
sion, as  if  she  were  no  longer  on  an  equality  with 
with  them.  Others — two  or  three — went  about 
with  a  rapt  and  radiant  air  as  if,  indeed,  they 
had  entered  upon  a  new  life,  and  with  glorified 
vision  looked  out  upon  a  more  spiritual  world 
than  the  unregenerate  saw.  These  she  observed 
somewhat  wistfully,  but  it  was  at  no  time  borne 
in  upon  her  that  she,  too,  could  share  their  joy. 

She  was  not  self-conscious ;  had  she  been  so 
she  would  have  become  aware  on  this  Friday 
night  that  unusual  attention  was  directed  her 
way.  Long  after,  she  learned  that  she  had  been 
regarded  by  the  elder  brethren  and  sisters  as  a 
"  soul  "  whose  conversion  was,  for  various  rea- 
sons, much  to  be  desired,  and  that  a  determined 
and  concerted  effort  to  break  her  hitherto  un- 
moved ''calm  was  prearranged  for  that  evening. 

All  these  meetings  were  informal.  Some  one 
began  to  sing,  "Jesus,  Lover  of  My  Soul,"  and 
the  congregation  joined  in  with  more  than  com- 
mon fervor.  It  was  the  old-time  tune  even 
more  touching  than  the  words.  Althea  added 
her  ciear  young  voice  to  the  rest  as  she  had  done 
before : 

226 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

"All  my  trust  on  Thee  is  stayed, 

All  my  help  from  Thee  I  bring; 
Cover  my  defenseless  head 

With  the  shadow  of  Thy  wing." 

As  the  verse  came  to  an  end  an  elderly  sister, 
passing  by,  touched  Althea  softly  on  the  shoul- 
der and  whispered : 

"You  should  come,  dear,  and  give  yourself 
to  Jesus  so  you  could  sing  that  with  your 
heart  " 

An  aged  brother  lifted  up  his  quavering  voice 
in  prayer.  He  was  illiterate,  but  it  is  piety  and 
not  erudition,  we  must  believe,  which  counts  with 
the  Maker  of  men. 

"Oh,  Lord,"  he  prayed,  "Oh,  Lord,  there 
ain't  but  a  few  sinners  left  in  this  yer  congrega- 
tion, an'  ef  you'll  jest  pour  out  the  speret  upon 
us  to-night,  jest  pour  it  out  free,  we'll  fetch  'em 
in.  They  cain't  stand  out  agin  that  power;  they'll 
realize  thet  they're  pore  an'  needy.  Bless  us, 
Lord,  bless  us  right  now!" 

Then  came  the  pleading  hymn : 

"  Come  ye  sinners,  poor  and  needy, 
Weak  and  wounded,  sick  and  sore  ; 
Jesus  ready  stands  to  save  you, 
Full  of  pity,  love  and  power  ; 
He  is  able,  He  is  able, 
He  is  willing,  doubt  no  more." 
227 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

The  exhortations  of  the  old  pastor,  commonly 
so  fatherly  and  gentle,  had  an  almost  youthful 
fire  that  night.  He  preached  the  wrath  of  God 
as  he  had  not  done  in  all  the  weeks.  The  guilt 
of  the  one  withholding  complete  submission  was 
pictured  in  the  darkest  colors.  Repentance  for 
sin,  acceptance  of  atoning  grace,  love  for  the 
Son,  were  the  only  means  of  averting  this  wrath. 
Neither  gifts  nor  praise,  neither  good  works  nor 
clean  living,  could  avail  if  the  doer  of  righteous 
things  walked  not  humbly  by  faith  in  God.  De- 
lay meant  death.  Let  the  young  yield  up  their 
hearts  now,  or  else  risk  the  loss  of  life  eternal. 

After  him  came  a  young  evangelist  who  was 
becoming  noted  for  his  success  as  an  "awaken- 
er."  He  was  a  thin-faced,  long-necked  young 
man,  spoken  of  by  admiring  women  as  ascetic 
and  spiritual.  Discriminating  observers  would 
have  been  apt  to  class  him  as  dyspeptic  and  his 
eloquence  as  sounding  brass;  nevertheless,  with 
his  peculiarly  musical  voice  and  pleading  man- 
ner he  won  attention  where  others  failed.  Al- 
thea  Hood  had  dreamed  dreams  about  this 
young  man.  If  she  had  understood  the  secrets 
of  her  own  foolish  little  child-heart  she  would 
have  been  aware  that  his  presence  was  one  of 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

the  attractions  that  had  made  her  attendance  so 
constant  at  the  meetings.  She  was  not  in  love 
with  him — the  sentiment  had  no  such  strength 
as  that.  She  was  simply  experiencing  the  first 
faint  flutterings  of  femininity  roused  to  life  by 
masculine  influence. 

The  evangelist  clasped  his  hands  before  him 
in  the  praying-Samuel  position,  and  tossing 
back  his  long  mane  began  to  plead  with  those 
lambs  which  had  wandered  away  from  the  Shep- 
herd's loving  arms.  He  said  nothing  of  sin  or 
of  guilt,  repentence  or  forgiveness.  He  only 
called  upon  the  wanderers  to  come  where  love, 
and  shelter,  and  tender  care  awaited  them.  He 
quoted  beautiful  poetic  passages  from  the  Bible 
and  comforting  promises;  he  talked  of  green 
pastures  and  still  waters,  of  light,  and  life,  and 
love,  but  love  was  chiefly  his  theme.  It  was 
divine  love,  of  course,  but  the  speaker's  voice 
was  soft  and  low ;  his  eyes  were  directed  toward 
Althea,  and  she,  poor  child,  thrilled  at  his  tones 
and  only  half  comprehended  his  words.  In  con- 
clusion he  held  out  his  hands  entreatingly  and 
sang: 

"  Love  divine,  all  loves  excelling, 

Joy  of  heaven  to  earth  come  down  ; 
Fix  in  us  thy  humble  dwelling, 
All  thy  faithful  mercies  crown." 
229 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

These  little  tenor  solos,  interspersed  through 
his  talks,  were  distinctive  features  of  his  methods 
and  were  considered  especially  effective.  The 
revival  spirit  was  fully  aroused  now.  Song  and 
prayer  quickly  succeeded  each  other.  Ejacula- 
tions of  praise  and  murmurs  of  ecstatic  feeling 
were  heard  from  all  parts  of  the  room  in  antiphonal 
likeness.  Brethren  and  sisters,  gifted  as  plead- 
ers, or  led  by  sense  of  duty  to  exercise  their  in- 
fluence, moved  among  the  congregation,  seeking 
out  the  few  who,  as  the  accepted  phrase  was, 
had  not  yet  "confessed  Christ."  One  after  an- 
other besought  Althea  to  yield  up  her  heart. 
Tears  fell  from  the  eyes  of  the  old  pastor  as  he 
urged  her  to  go  forward  to  the  "mourners' 
bench"  and  take  what  might  be  her  last  chance 
for  salvation. 

They  were  singing  fervently  just  then: 

"  Alas,  and  did  my  Savior  bleed, 
And  did  my  Sovereign  die  ? 
Would  He  devote  that  sacred  head 
For  such  a  worm  as  I  ?  " 

"But  I  am  not  a  vile  sinner,"  she  protested. 
"I  am  not  a  worm,"  and  would  not  go. 

Her  school-mates  who  had  so  lately  read  their 
own  titles  clear  added  their  petitions ;  her  teacher 
230 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

urged  upon  her  the  duty  of  subduing  her  pride 
and  indifference ;  women  and  men  for  whom  she 
had  the  greatest  respect,  came  to  her  and 
pointed  out  the  strait  and  narrow  path.  They 
left  her  still  unmoved  so  far  as  outward  in- 
dications showed.  The  young  evangelist  ap- 
proached. Her  lips  set  together  firmly;  her 
hands,  already  moving  nervously,  clenched  them- 
selves; the  strain  was  becoming  great,  but,  "I 
will  not  go,"  she  whispered  to  herself.  He 
reached  out  his  hand.  "Come,  little  sister,"  he 
said.  "Come;  the  Good  Shepherd  wants  this 
lamb  that  is  outside  the  fold.  Come."  And 
she  arose  and  followed  him. 

In  front  of  the  pulpit  was  a  long  bench  at 
which  already  were  two  penitents — an  old  man 
who  was  converted  at  every  revival  and  as  regu- 
larly became  a  backslider  when  the  excitement 
subsided,  and  a  young  man  who  was  commonly 
spoken  of  in  the  community  as  a  "hard  case." 
She  knelt  beside  them  mechanically. 

The  congregation  was  singing  with  great  vol- 
ume of  sound,  "There's  a  Land  That  Is  Fairer 
Than  Day."  The  young  evangelist  turned  and 
lifted  his  hand.  There  was  silence,  and  with 
hands  clasped  and  eyes  uplifted  he  sang  "The 
231 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

Ninety  and  Nine."  It  was  like  a  solo  by  a  fa- 
mous tenor  in  an  opera — a  feature  of  the  even- 
ing that  women,  at  least,  would  not  have  missed 
for  the  world.  He  sang  it  through,  and  when 
he  reached  the  last  triumphant  strain  excitement 
was  at  hysterical  height: 

"But  all  through  the  mountains  thunder-riven, 

And  up  from  the  rocky  steep, 
There  rose  a  cry  to  the  gate  of  heaven, 
'Rejoice  !  I  have  found  my  sheep  ! ' 
And  the  angels  echoed  around  the  throne, 
'Rejoice  !  for  the  Lord  brings  back  His  own  !'  " 

There  was  a  chorus  of  amens.  "Bless  the  Lord  !" 
shouted  one  brother ;  ' '  Praise  His  name !  ' '  ex- 
claimed another.  There  were  groans  and  inar- 
ticulate cries.  A  woman  uttered  a  piercing 
shriek,  and  falling  prone  upon  the  floor  in  the 
aisle,  lay  there  like  a  log.  No  one  heeded  her; 
she  had  the  ' '  power  ' '  and  would  come  to  her- 
self in  good  time.  Breathing  was  short  and 
quick;  faces  were  flushed;  women  and  girls 
wept  silently,  or  with  hysterical  sobs,  as  their 
temperaments  constrained  them ;  there  was  a 
rhythmical  swaying  of  bodies ;  some  one  prayed 
loudly  but  no  one  heard;  the  amens,  the  groans, 
and  the  bless-God '  s  were  still  louder.  Althea,  half 
232 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

terrified  by  the  tempest  of  emotion  about  her,  her 
self-control  broken  at  last,  sobbed  convulsively. 

A  mother  in  Israel  knelt  beside  her  and  en- 
treated her  to  open  her  heart  and  let  love  and 
forgiveness  come  in.  The  old  man  at  the 
mourners'  bench  rose  with  a  joyful  shout  and 
announced  that  he  felt  to  rejoice  that  he  had 
once  more  been  anointed  with  the  oil  of  gladness 
and  had  obtained  forgiveness  for  his  sins. 

"Come  let  us  anew  our  journey  pursue  "  be- 
gan a  voice  near  by,  and  the  congregation  took 
up  the  strain. 

The  young  man,  who  was  a  hard  case,  rose 
and  stammeringly  declared  that  he  had  given 
his  heart  to  God  and  hoped,  by  His  help,  to 
live  a  Christian  life  from  that  time  on. 

As  suddenly  as  Althea's  tears  had  begun  they 
ceased  and  her  excitement  was  over.  She  rose 
to  her  feet  just  as  her  favorite  hymn  was  being 
sung — favorite,  because  of  the  pathetic  minor 
cadences,  not  the  words  whose  sentiment  was 
beyond  her  experience  yet.  Unconscious  as  a 
bird,  she  joined  in: 

"Just  as  I  am,  without  one  plea, 
But  that  Thy  blood  was  shed  for  me, 
And  that  Thou  bidst  me  come  to  Thee, 
O  Lamb  of  God!  I  come." 
233 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

The  brethren  and  sisters  near  the  front  pressed 
around  her  with  congratulations.  The  pastor 
took  her  hand  and  patted  it,  his  face  beaming. 

"My  daughter,  I  knew  there  was  a  blessing 
for  you  if  you  would  take  it.  Add  your  word 
of  testimony  now." 

"But  I  did  not  mean,"  she  said  with  startled 
emphasis.  "I  am  not — I  have  not  had  a  bless- 
ing." 

They  saw  her  lips  move,  but  no  one  listened 
to  her  words,  and  the  song  drowned  them: 

"Hallelujah  'tis  done!  I  believe  on  the  Son, 
I  am  saved  by  the  blood  of  the  crucified  One!" 

Following  this  triumphant  outburst  came  the 
joyful  hymn : 

"  How  happy  are  they 
Who  their  Savior  obey, 

And  have  laid  up  their  treasures  above! 
Tongue  can  not  express 
The  sweet  comfort  and  peace 

Of  a  soul  in  its  earliest  love  ! " 

She  was  counted  among  the  converts.  The 
pastor  thanked  God  for  her  in  his  prayer,  and 
was  a  shade  less  enthusiastic  in  thanks  for  the 
rescue  of  the  backslider  and  the  hard  case. 

Althea  did  not  join  in  the  singing  of  the  dox- 
234 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

ology.  All  at  once  a  meaning  seemed  to  come 
into  the  words  which  hardly  had  a  meaning  to 
her  before. 

"  Praise  God  from  whom  all  blessings  flow  !" 

Could  she  really  praise  God?  Praise  Him  for 
what? 

As  she  passed  slowly  down  the  crowded  aisle 
hands  were  stretched  from  every  side  to  grasp 
hers  in  the  kindly  Methodist  fashion ;  many  a 
blessing  was  invoked  upon  her  by  the  older 
brethren  and  sisters ;  younger  friends  said  they 
were  glad  she  had  become  one  of  them.  She 
only  smiled  faintly  and  was  silent.  Silence 
seemed  cowardly,  but  how  could  she  tell  them 
that  it  was  not  true,  that  she  had  experienced 
no  change  of  heart,  that  she  was  the  same  in 
every  way  that  she  had  been  the  day  before? 
Or  could  it  be,  and  she  grasped  at  the  thought, 
could  it  be  that  a  change  had  come  and  she  did 
not  know  it?  She  had  been  excited,  had  wept 
and  then  become  calm  like  all  her  newly  con- 
verted friends.  Then  her  eyes  fell  upon  the 
hard  case  as  he  met  his  mother — an  old  woman 
with  care-worn,  tear-stained  face,  transfigured, 
now,  with  joy.  His  reckless,  defiant  expression 
235 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

had  given  way  to  a  look  of — what  was  it? — de- 
termination, gladness,  high  endeavor?  She  felt 
that  he  had  attained  something  she  had  not  and 
her  hopeful  thought  for  herself  vanished. 

Pressed  by  the  crowd  into  the  angle  of  a  door- 
way she  heard  the  young  evangelist  say  in  con- 
fidential tone  to  a  leading  member:  "In  this 
business  you  have  to  make  a  study  of  people. 
Different  methods  must  be  worked  on  old  and 
young  men,  old  women  and  young  ones.  Not 
many  '11  hold  out  if  you  go  at  'em  in  the  right 
way.  I  felt  sure  I'd  fetch  the  Hood  girl.  You 
know  they  say  I  have  a  taking  way  with  the  la- 
dies," and  he  laughed  foolishly. 

"I'm  powerful  glad  ye  fetched  her,  it  makes 
the  even  one  hundred  and  fifty — I  don't  count 
the  other  two  who  went  for'ard  to-night,  they 
won't  stick — and  one  hundred  and  fifty  is  a 
mighty  good  showing  in  a  town  like  this;  they'll 
build  up  the  church  amazing.  Besides,  her 
father,  Colonel  Hood,  '11  be  madder' n  a  hornet. 
He  don't  b'lieve  in  religious  revivals.  He's 
Tiscopal." 

The  old  man  chuckled  in  an  ungodly  way. 
Althea,  hurrying  by,  felt,  with  the  changing  im- 
pulse of  youth,  that  she  hated  them  both,  and, 
236 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

with  mist  of  romance  suddenly  and  cruelly 
cleared,  she  saw  the  evangelist  as  a  lean,  lank, 
commonplace,  self-conceited  youth,  and  an  inno- 
cent, girlish  ideal  of  manliness  was  forever  gone. 
It  was  not  a  happy  frame  of  mind  for  a  new 
convert. 

A  few  months  after  the  revival,  which  re- 
mains famous  in  the  annals  of  Greenbrier,  life 
began  for  Althea  Hood.  This  first  experience 
of  life  grew  out  of  acquaintance  with  death. 
The  destroyer  came  suddenly  to  her  father,  not 
yet  an  old  man.  Under  the  shock  the  mother 
drooped  and  soon  followed  her  husband. 

Althea,  with  the  bewilderment  which  comes 
to  the  young  who  encounter  the  great  mystery, 
mourned  and  suffered  as  only  the  young  do— 
without  the  philosophy,  the  resignation,  some- 
times the  peace  and  hope  that  bereavement 
brings  to  age.  Pious  friends  talked  to  her  of 
the  duty  of  submission — she  was  still  rebellious ; 
of  God's  love — she  did  not  know  their  meaning. 
The  experience  of  the  revival  had  left  her  with- 
out religious  feeling;  it  was  as  if  her  heart, 
which  might  have  unfolded  as  naturally  to  spirit- 
ual truth  as  a  rose  opens  under  sun  and  dew, 
237 


THE  QJJICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

had  ceased  to  grow,  like  a  bud  when  torn  apart 
by  rough  hands. 

Life  was  not  easy.  Poverty  was  her  portion, 
and  a  home  with  uncongenial  relatives  until 
school  days  were  past  and  she  became  a  teacher 
among  new  scenes  and  new  people  in  the 
capital  of  the  state. 

There  are  teachers  who  profess  to  love  their 
calling  for  its  own  sake.  Being  truthful  in 
other  matters  they  must  be  believed  in  this. 
Althea  Hood  was  not  one  of  these.  She  found 
teaching  irksome,  and  when  David  Phillips  asked 
her  to  marry  him  she  promptly  said  yes,  and 
gladly  gave  up  her  work. 

Althea  loved  her  husband  with  as  deep  an 
affection  as  she  was  capable  of  entertaining  at 
her  stage  of  development. 

In  occasional  moments  of  introspection  Althea 
realized  that  she  did  not  have  that  absorbing, 
overwhelming  affection  for  him  that  novelists' 
heroines  entertain  for  their  chosen  lovers,  but 
satisfied  herself  with  the  theory  that  such  ardent 
emotions  did  not  belong  to  real  life. 

David  Phillips  was  a  prosperous,  energetic 
business  man  several  years  older  than  she — a 
quiet,  self-contained  person  who  smiled  indul- 
238 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

gently  over  his  young  wife's  aesthetic  tastes,  her 
fondness  for  poetry  and  romance,  her  little  out- 
bursts of  sentiment,  her  feminine  ways  in  gen- 
eral. If  he  did  not  seem  to  sympathize  he,  at 
least,  did  not  antagonize,  and  she  was  fairly  con- 
tent in  her  little  daily  round.  There  were  the 
housekeeping  and  social  duties,  the  music,  the 
reading,  the  various  odds  and  ends  that  fill  the 
time  of  the  woman  who  has  no  ambitions  out- 
side her  home,  no  consciousness  of  work  to  be 
done  there — these  made  up  her  routine.  There 
were  no  ecstacies,  no  deep  emotions;  it  was  9 
narrow  life,  and  yet  a  day  came  when  she  looked 
back  to  this  period  of  peace  as  one  of  enviable 
bliss.  There  are  but  few  heights  of  joy  in  any 
life,  and,  in  most,  many  depths  of  grief,  so  it 
may  be  that  the  dead  level  of  calm  content,  the 
absence  of  emotion,  is  the  happiness  to  be 
chosen — if  choice  were  in  human  power. 

Althea  attended  church  during  this  time.  It 
was  respectable  to  do  so ;  it  had  been  her  early 
habit,  and,  besides,  the  beauty  of  the  Epis- 
copal ritual  pleased  her.  She  could  join  in 
the  prayer,  ' '  Have  mercy  upon  us  miserable 
sinners,"  with  an  intellectual  pleasure  in  the 
sonorousness  of  the  response,  but  with  as  little 
239 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

understanding  of  heart  as  when  the  brethren  at 
the  revival  besought  her  to  seek  forgiveness  for 
sin.  But  though  she  did  not  comprehend,  some- 
times she  wondered  if  all  those  who  joined  in  the 
prayers  were  as  unmoved  as  she,  and,  if  not,  what 
secret  they  possessed  that  she  did  not. 

Then,  one  happy  day,  a  new  interest  entered 
into  her  life.  Her  baby  came  and  her  soul 
began  to  grow.  It  is  not  always  so,  though  it 
is  the  fashion  to  talk  of  mothers  as  gifted  with 
a  world  of  new  spiritual  and  moral  graces.  To 
those  who  look  on,  it  too  often  seems  that  moth- 
erhood means  a  narrowing  of  vision  and  an  in- 
tensity of  selfishness.  But  Althea's  horizon 
widened.  With  her  own  child  in  her  arms  she 
looked  out  upon  a  new  world.  Her  eyes  were 
suddenly  opened  to  the  needs  of  other  little  ones. 
A  vast  pity  filled  her  heart  for  the  waifs,  the 
hapless  creatures  who  are  born  to  poverty  and 
know  suffering  almost  with  their  first  breath. 
"The  cry  of  the  children"  appealed  to  her  as  it 
had  never  done  before.  Her  eyes  once  open,  it 
was  strange  what  vistas  of  both  joy  and  sorrow 
spread  before  them;  she  questioned  why  she 
had  not  seen  these  things  before. 

Her  little  son  waxed  fat  and  fair.  He  was 
240 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

the  delight  of  her  days ;  waking  and  sleeping  he 
was  in  her  dreams.  She  rejoiced  in  his  infantile 
graces,  but  her  thoughts  ran  on  and  on  and  pic- 
tured him  as  he  should  be  as  time  went  by — the 
sturdy  lad  loved  by  his  playmates,  the  youth 
excelling  his  companions  in  all  noble  undertak- 
ings, the  strong,  proud  man  honored  by  th« 
world,  but  through  all  the  changes  her  own  dear 
son,  still  loving  and  true. 

Her  husband  looked  on,  pleased  at  the  sight 
of  the  maternal  joy,  the  look  a  little  wistful  at 
times,  perhaps,  because  the  wife  was  so  lost  in 
the  mother  that  he  seemed  half  forgotten  and 
quite  unessential  to  her  happiness. 

Then  one  terrible  day  the  baby  died,  the  lit- 
tle child  who  had  lacked  no  care  that  love  could 
give.  Out  of  the  mother's  arms  they  took  the 
fair  dimpled  body  for  the  last  time ;  they  folded 
the  rose-leaf  hands  that  would  flutter  upon  her 
bosom  no  more ;  they  took  him  away,  the  life 
of  her  life,  and  laid  him  under  the  flowers. 

Is  there  agony  for  any  human  creature  greater 
than  that  of  the  mother  bereaved? 

She  mourned  in  bitterness  and  without  hope. 
Between  her  and  the  "land  that  is  fairer  than 
day, ' '  the  land  of  which  she  once  sang  so  un- 
16  241 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

thinkingly,  rose  a  wall  through  which  came  no 
answer  to  her  resentful  cries.  In  her  wretchedness 
she  turned  against  her  husband.  She  fancied 
that  he  was  not  sympathetic,  that  he  really 
missed  their  child  but  little.  She  brooded  over 
this  imaginary  trouble  in  addition  to  the  genuine 
woe  and  brought  herself  into  such  a  state  of  an- 
tagonism that  nothing  he  could  do  pleased  her, 
and  she  withdrew  her  companionship  from  him 
to  a  degree  that  left  him  bewildered  and  help- 
less. He  ascribed  her  irritability  and  coldness 
to  her  recent  bereavement.  It  was  really  one 
of  those  critical  situations  that  occur  in  most 
married  lives  before  the  art  of  living  together  in 
harmony  has  been  mastered.  The  little  rift  may 
close  itself  or  become  a  chasm  never  to  be  bridged . 
David  recommended  change  of  scene.  Would 
she  go  south  and  get  the  early  spring  breezes? 
Would  she  come  with  him  on  a  trip  to  New 
York  which  business  compelled  him  to  take? 
Would  she  go  anywhere  her  fancy  preferred  and 
win  back  health  to  mind  and  nerves?  These 
were  questions  he  asked  her,  but  to  all  she  cold- 
ly answered  "no."  She  "wished  to  be  alone," 
she  said,  and  he  left  her  reluctantly. 


242 


Scarcely  had  he  started  on  his  journey  when 
a  thing  happened  the  like  of  which  has  been 
known  to  occur  among  people  we  hear  of; 
people  of  whom  our  friends  know  and,  whisper- 
ing, tell  the  tale.  A  woman  called  to  see  Al- 
thea — a  woman  who  had  possibly  been  comely 
at  one  time  in  her  life  but  was  no  longer,  a 
creature  unprepossessing  enough  now.  With  her 
was  a  child  two  or  three  years  old.  It  was  not 
a  pleasant  story  she  told,  but  she  told  it  in  a 
way  convincing  to  her  hearer.  She  was  the 
woman,  she  said,  who  should  have  been  David 
Phillips's  wife ;  the  child  was  hers  and  his,  but  he 
had  cast  them  both  off.  They  were  in  want; 
would  Mrs.  Phillips  help  them? 

She  gave  the  woman  money  and  sent  her 
away  in  haste,  telling  her  never  to  return,  and 
that  she  did  not  believe  her  story;  but  she 
never  doubted  its  truth  for  a  moment.  Would 
a  woman,  even  a  lost  creature,  advertise  her 
shame  needlessly?  She  had  never  dreamed  that 
her  husband,  David  Phillips,  had  ever  been 
other  than  upright  and  honorable,  and  had  heard 
and  thought  but  little  in  her  life  about  evil  of 
this  sort.  But  she  had  seen  that  David  was 
changed ;  he  was  growing  more  quiet  and  reti- 
243 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

cent  every  day.  Perhaps  he  was  losing  his  love 
for  her,  and  he  had  not  seemed  to  care  when 
the  baby  died.  Her  little  son!  And  he  was 
the  father  of  her  son. 

A  whirlwind  of  rage  swept  over  her  at  the 
thought  that  he  had  covered  the  memory  of  this 
lost  darling  with  shame,  that  he  had  brought 
humiliation  upon  her.  How  could  she  go  on 
and  live  in  the  same  world  with  him  and  with — 
those  others.  A  wild  impulse  to  take  herself 
out  of  it  came  to  her ;  a  vision  of  the  river,  deep 
and  dark,  rose  temptingly. 

Her  wrath  turned  against  the  man  who  had 
deceived  her.  At  times  she  longed  for  him  to 
be  there  that  she  might  face  him  with  her  knowl- 
edge of  his  iniquity;  then,  with  revulsion  of  feel- 
ing, rejoiced  at  his  absence.  No  one  seeing  her 
then  could  charge  her  with  being  unemotional. 
Vindictive  passion  stirred  her  one  hour,  shame 
weighed  her  down  the  next,  then  followed  a 
wave  of  grief  for  the  vanished  days  of  peace. 
Life  was  not  the  joyous  thing  it  had  seemed  in 
the  old  Greenbrier  days ;  now,  she  knew  that  it 
meant  tears,  and  heartache,  and  sorrows  worse 
than  death.  She  wrote  brief  notes  in  reply  to 
her  husband's  letters.  Why  she  postponed 
244 


THE  OjttCRENlNG  OP  A  SOUL 

writing  him  that  their  lives  could  not  go  on  to- 
gether she  hardly  knew,  since  she  had  deter- 
mined to  send  such  a  letter.  One  day  she  be- 
gan the  task.  Before  she  had  finished  illumina- 
tion came.  She  knew  suddenly  that  she  loved 
the  man  she  was  preparing  to  put  out  of  her  life 
— loved  him  in  spite  of  his  sins,  of  his  wrong  to 
herself,  loved  him  with  an  intensity  she  had  not 
dreamed  of  when  she  married  him.  It  was  not 
the  love  she  had  read  of  and  had  not  thought  to 
experience,  it  was  a  thousand  times  stronger. 
She  did  not  want  it  so ;  she  resented  the  truth 
and  would  have  denied  it  to  herself  but  could 
not. 

For  days  she  fought  with  her  impulses,  and 
then  resisted  them  no  longer.  She  was  too 
frank  and  transparent  to  dream  of  concealing  her 
knowledge  of  the  wretched  secret,  and,  besides, 
she  had  conceived  a  plan  whose  carrying  out 
involved  mutual  explanation  and  consultations. 

With  trembling  haste,  now  that  she  had  re- 
solved upon  a  course,  she  wrote  the  letter  tell- 
ing him  her  story  of  the  woman  and  child,  of 
her  grief  and  resentment,  and,  finally,  of  her 
love  and  willingness  to  forgive  and  receive  him 
back.  Then  she  added — it  was  the  crowning  bit 
245 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

of  self-sacrifice — "I  want  to  provide  for  the 
child;  if  you  like,  I  will  find  it  and  bring  it 
home." 

She  sent  the  letter  and  waited.  With  all  her 
spirit  of  forgiveness  and  her  impatience  for  his 
return  she  was  not  unmindful  of  the  fact  that  she 
was  doing  an  unusual  thing,  one  he  would  have 
no  right  to  expect,  a  truly  Christian  act.  In- 
deed, the  spirit  of  condescension,  of  goodness 
stooping  to  the  sinner,  was  manifest  in  the  let- 
ter. 

She  did  not  know  where  the  woman  and  child 
might  be  found,  but  spent  those  days  of  waiting 
in  wandering  about  a  quarter  of  the  city  she  had 
known  but  little  of,  thinking  that  by  chance  she 
might  find  them.  Once  she  caught  a  glimpse 
of  the  woman  in  a  passing  street  car — a  hard- 
faced  creature  in  tawdry  garb  she  looked  in  the 
pitiless  sunlight. 

Hurrying  home,  a  little  belated,  one  evening, 
she  was  driven  by  a  sudden  spring  shower  to 
the  nearest  shelter,  which  chanced  to  be  a  dilap- 
idated warehouse,  hardly  more  than  a  shed, 
from  whose  open  door  the  sound  of  singing  is- 
sued. By  the  dim  and  flickering  light  of  a  few 
lanterns  hung  about  she  saw  a  motley  company 
246 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

seated  on  improvised  benches,  or  standing  next 
the  wall.  There  were  men  who  looked  like 
tramps  and  others,  better  clothed,  who  might 
be  worse.  There  were  women  who  might  be 
honest  mothers  of  families,  others  who  as  surely 
were  not.  Unwholesome  looking  children  of 
various  ages  looked  curiously  on. 

But  one  voice  was  heard ;  evidently  the  crowd 
was  not  familiar  with  the  words  of  the  song.  The 
man  standing  by  an  upturned  box  with  a  cheap 
glass  lamp  upon  it  was  the  singer.  "There  Is  a 
Fountain  Filled  With  Blood,"  was  the  hymn; 
he  sang  one  stanza  through  alone.  As  he  be- 
gan the  second  a  woman  joined  in  in  a  thin,  un- 
certain soprano: 

"The  dying  thief  rejoiced  to  see 

That  fountain  in  his  day; 
And  there  may  I,  though  vile  as  he, 

Wash  all  my  sins  away, 
Wash  all  my  sins  away." 

With  the  third  verse  the  woman  stopped  and 
sat  down,  sobbing  loudly,  but  not  before  Althea 
had  seen  her  face ;  it  was  that  of  the  woman  she 
was  seeking. 

The  man  by  the  box  began  to  speak  in  a  low, 
conversational  tone.  As  he  stepped  out  of  the 
247 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

shadow  into  the  light  of  the  lamp  she  recog- 
nized, with  a  start  of  surprise,  the  "hard  case" 
of  the  Greenbrier  revival.  He  did  not  look  like 
a  hard  case  now.  He  was  shabbily  dressed, 
but  his  thin,  dark  face  wore  an  expression  of 
earnestness,  of  absorbed  interest,  of  what  even 
seemed  like  love  for  the  people  about  him. 

"I  was  vile,  like  that  thief,"  he  said;  "I  de- 
fied God.  I  cared  nothing  for  Him;  I  believed 
He  cared  nothing  for  me.  I  broke  His  laws 
recklessly  and  rejoiced  in  my  wickedness,  or  I 
pretended  to  rejoice,  though  I  could  never  quite 
quiet  the  pricks  of  conscience,  for  I  knew  better. 
I  had  a  mother  who  loved  me  and  prayed  for 
me.  One  day  I  suddenly  saw  all  my  guilt  and 
was  without  hope,  but  light  came  and  forgive- 
ness even  to  me — to  me! — to  me! — and  since 
that  day  'redeeming  love  has  been  my  theme, 
and  shall  be  till  I  die.'  " 

Then  he  pleaded  with  his  hearers  in  impas- 
sioned but  simple  language  to  leave  their  sins 
and  live  good  lives  for  the  sake  of  the  One  who 
died  upon  the  cross,  for  their  own  sakes,  for  the 
sake  of  those  about  them.  It  was  not  a  sermon ; 
it  was  not  even  a  connected  discourse ;  it  was 
neither  learned  nor  logical,  but  it  was  a  cry 
248 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

from  the  heart,  and  the  listeners  knew  it  and 
were  moved  accordingly. 

Althea  knew  that  she  had  encountered  again 
the  mysterious  something  which  had  passed  her 
by.  The  hard  case  whose  conversion  at  Green- 
brier  had  been  so  lightly  regarded  that  he  was 
not  counted  in  by  the  revivalists  when  they 
"made  up  their  jewels,"  had  found  there  the 
spiritual  gift  that  made  him  a  new  man.  Some- 
times she  had  suspected  that  those  who  professed 
to  have  consciously  won  this  blessing  deceived 
themselves,  but  there  was  something  genuine 
here.  But  she  could  not  speculate  on  this  now. 
She  stepped  to  the  side  of  the  yellow-haired  girl 
and  touched  her  arm. 

"Where  is  your  baby?"  she  whispered.  The 
girl  looked  up  with  red  eyes,  stupidly.  "My 
baby?"  she  repeated  wonderingly,  and  then 
comprehended.  Through  the  artificial  color  on 
her  cheeks  a  genuine  red  showed.  She  dropped 
her  head  and  then  lifted  it  and  looked  straight 
in  Althea 's  eyes. 

"I  have  no  baby,  lady;   I  never  had.     I  was 

just  fooling  you.     I    wanted    money.     I  never 

knew  your  husband  only  by  name,  and  he  never 

saw  or  heard  of  me,  I  reckon.     I  read  in  the 

249 


THE  QJJICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

paper  that  he'd  gone  to  New  York.  I  wanted 
money,  and  I'd  seen  you,  and  I  guessed  you 
were,  well — an  easy  mark,  and  so  I  fixed  up  the 
story.  I  thought  you  looked,  too,  as  if  you  had 
no  sympathy  for  such  as  me,  and  maybe  that 
made  me  pick  on  you  to  give  you  a  little  trouble 
instead  of  another.  You  didn't  know  a  body 
could  be  so  wicked,  did  you?  The  baby  is  Mrs. 
Caffrey's,  across  the  street.  His  mother's  good 
to  me  and  lets  me  take  care  of  him  when  she 
goes  washing.  I've  been  a  bad  girl,  lady,  but 
I'm  going  to  be  better.  I'll  pay  you  back  that 
money  some  day." 

But  Mrs.  Phillips  was  gone.  She  flew  across 
the  street.  The  door  of  the  two-room  shanty 
was  open  and  she  stepped  in  after  a  hasty  knock. 
The  baby — she  would  have  known  it  anywhere 
— lay  asleep  on  a  bed ;  a  woman  stood  at  a  ta- 
ble ironing. 

"Are  you  Mrs.  Caffrey,  and  whose  baby  is 
this?  "  asked  the  visitor. 

"Oim  Mrs.  Caffrey,  and  thot  boy  is  mine, 
born  in  howly  wedlock,  av  ye  plaze,  an'  wud  have 
a  lather  this  blessed  minute  av  ut  hadn't  bin  for 
the  hayt'nenish  shtame  cars  thot  wudn't  shtop  to 
rouse  up  a  man  who'd  set  down  on  the  thrack  to 
250 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

rest  as  he  was  comin'  from  a  wake.  An'  phwat 
wud  ye  be  likin'  to  know  for,  ma'am?" 
"It  isn't  Maggie  Miller's  baby?  " 
"  Maggie  Miller — the  likes  av  her !  My  little 
Patsy  asked  av  his  mother  was  an  ondacent  fa- 
male — him  that  had  an  honest  father  married  to 
his  mother  by  the  praste.  Och,  the  impident 
question !  Maggie,  she's  got  no  baby,  betther's 
her  luck.  Not  thot  Maggie's  so  bad,  poor 
body.  She's  good  to  little  Patsy,  an'  she's  over 
now  helpin'  thot  preacher  man  sing  the  hymns 
she  used  to  hear  in  the  counthry  when  she  was  a 
betther  gurrl.  She'd  be  betther  askin'  the 
Howly  Mother  to  shpake  for  her,  an'  be  confes- 
sin'  her  sins  to  Father  Ryan;  but  av  this  ware- 
house religion  kapes  her  from  divilmint  it's  not 
the  likes  av  me  to  shpake  ill  av  it.  But  phwat 
is  it,  leddy?" 

The  lady,  with  a  strange  look  on  her  face, 
apologized  confusedly  for  her  visit  and  hurried 
up  the  street,  Mrs.  Caffrey  peering  after  her  and 
talking  volubly  to  herself.  Her  mind  was  in  a 
tumult.  She  had  condemned  her  husband  on 
the  first  charge  against  him,  without  question 
and  without  giving  him  a  chance  for  defense. 
She  had  emphasized  the  injury  by  offering  to 
251 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

extend  pardon  to  him.  Pardon!  When  she 
was  the  one  to  need  forgiveness !  And  he  was 
away  and  she  wanted  to  see  him  at  once. 

In  the  morning  came  a  message.  There  had 
been  a  railroad  accident  at  a  junction  fifty  miles 
away.  David  Phillips  had  been  seriously  hurt. 
Would  she  come? 

She  was  on  the  train  in  an  hour.  It  seemed 
years  since  the  calm,  uneventful  period  of  her  early 
married  life  when  she  had  sometimes  fancied 
that  she  was  born  with  a  limited  capacity  for 
emotion.  She  knew  better  now;  depths  had 
been  sounded  and  were  stirred.  She  had  learned 
what  love  and  suffering  meant,  and  more  suffer- 
ing was  before  her.  The  thing  that  most  be- 
wildered her  was  being  suddenly  and  unques- 
tionably in  the  wrong.  She  had  been  accus- 
tomed always  to  be  right,  or  to  think  herself  so. 
She  had  never  been  a  suppliant  to  God  or  man. 
She  wondered  if  she  had  been  self-righteous,  and 
was  filled  with  sudden  humility.  She  was  ready 
to  humble  herself  before  man,  at  least.  The 
train  did  not  move  fast  enough.  Would  David 
forgive  her?  Would  she  reach  him  in  time? 

She  found  him  at  a  farm-house  with  a  broken 
leg  and  many  bruises,  but  he  would  live.  She 
252 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

had  long  explanations  to  make,  but  as  she  knelt 
by  his  side  could  only  gasp : 

"I  was  wrong;  it  was  not  true;  I  was  mis- 
taken." 

He  drew  her  face  to  his,  and  she  knew  pardon 
was  hers,  and  love. 

"It  hurt  me,  sweetheart,  that  you  believed 
the  story,"  he  whispered,  faintly,  "but  when 
you  were  ready  to  take  me  back  in  spite  of  what 
you  believed,  when  you  could  forgive  such  a 
wrong,  I  knew  you  loved  me — and — and  I  had 
been  afraid." 

He  closed  his  eyes  with  a  look  of  utter  peace 
and  the  doctors  decreed  silence,  but  she  sat 
by  his  side  through  the  day,  nor  knew  that  the 
hours  were  long. 

The  miracle  of  spring  was  being  wrought 
upon  the  world.  But  yesterday  the  trees  had 
been  bare ;  to-day  in  the  sunshine  their  buds 
had  burst  into  green,  the  peach  trees  were  pink 
with  bloom,  the  dandelions  shone  yellow  in  the 
grass.  A  sense  of  growth,  of  transformation, 
was  in  the  very  air. 

What  comes  so  suddenly  to  buds  and  flowers 
may  come  to  the  human  soul. 

Under  the  sod  and  through  the  harsh  reign  of 
253 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

frosts  and  snows  the  way  had  been  prepared  for 
the  wonder  of  the  trees.  Motherhood,  bereave- 
ment and  tears,  injured  love  and  humiliation, 
and  the  later  happiness  had  done  their  silent 
work  upon  the  woman  nature.  The  time  had 
come  for  a  new  birth. 

In  the  dusk  she  left  David  and  wandered 
down  a  grassy  lane.  In  the  western  sky  beyond 
the  broad  prairie,  the  gorgeous  tints  of  the  sun- 
set faded  into  blue  and  pearl.  The  soft,  damp 
air  brought  the  smell  of  the  fresh  earth  from 
the  newly  plowed  field;  a  spicy  odor  from  a 
wild  apple  tree,  now  a  mass  of  pale  pink,  was 
wafted  to  her.  A  robin  chirped  sleepily  among 
the  young  maple  leaves  overhead.  The  tender, 
elusive  charm  of  the  season  of  growth  was  all 
about  her.  But  was  it  only  this  that  so  moved 
her,  she  vaguely  wondered.  She  had  known 
the  joy  of  spring  before,  and  it  was  not  like 
this.  Her  soul  seemed  lifted  up.  She  felt 
dimly  that  a  greater  glory  than  she  had  known 
was  just  beyond. 

Inside  the  open  door  of  a  little  cottage  down 
the  lane  a  woman  sat  by  a  lamp  sewing  and 
singing.  Her  voice  rose  sweet  and  clear: 

254 


THE  QUICKENING  OF  A  SOUL 

"Just  as  I  am — though  tossed  about. 
With  many  a  conflict,  many  a  doubt, 
With  fears  within  and  foes  without — 
O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come!" 

All  her  life  she  had  been  familiar  with  the 
hymns  that  expressed  the  thoughts  of  the  world 
seeking  God — hymns  of  penitence,  of  agony,  of 
peace  and  praise,  of  ecstatic  worship — and  she 
had  not  known  their  meaning.  All  at  once 
light  came.  She  lifted  up  her  arms. 

"O  Lamb  of  God!  O  Lamb  of  God!"  she 
whispered.  The  cloud  that  had  obscured  her 
spiritual  sight  lifted.  She  saw  herself  an  im- 
perfect human  creature,  but,  with  all  her  faults 
and  frailties,  an  atom  of  the  divine  essence;  her 
little  life  a  part  of  the  divine  plan ;  her  sorrows 
and  trials  the  discipline  inflicted  by  love.  Be- 
fore her  suddenly  appeared  her  lost  child,  the 
child  she  had  mourned  without  hope,  a  glorified 
vision.  Its  baby  hands  beckoned  her ;  its  sweet 
lips  smiled.  Love  for  child  and  husband,  the 
old  earthly  love,  filled  her  bosom  with  a  power 
she  had  not  known,  but  there  was  a  love  greater 
than  this.  Could  that  be  hers,  also? 

She  tried  to  pray,  but  could  not  form   her 


255 


THE  <^UICK£NING  Of  A  SOUL 

thoughts.     Was  that  a  touch  upon  her  hair,  a 

whisper  in  her  ear  ?    Surely  she  heard  the  words : 
"Come  unto  Me  all  ye  that  are  heavy  laden." 

She  stood  trembling  as  in  a  holy  presence.    Her 

face  turned  toward  the  sky. 

"O  Lamb  of  God — O  Lamb  of  God,  I  come. ' ' 
He  heard  in  heaven.     Joy  enfolded  her  as  a 

garment.      Divine  peace  fell  upon  her.     Her 

soul  was  born. 


2$6 


A     000125534 


